The Highlander (30 page)

“Did it help?” Mena wondered aloud.

He glanced down at her as though her question had pleased him. “Aye, it did. In a world where men paint the ground with blood, the stars gave me a reason to look up. They're a map when ye're lost, and points of light when all is dark. I ken why you think it makes them seem friendly.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I suppose that they remind me that the world always turns. That things are constantly changing. This moment, every moment, whether good or terrible, will pass into oblivion and so I must live it. I must see it through. And, eventually, a new day will come again. Another chance for something better.”

Mena thought his face, turned down as it was, half to the light, and the other half to shadow, should remind her that she conversed with the Demon Highlander, the dangerous man she'd promised to avoid as much as possible.

But something about the arrangement of his features belied any of her reservations. His lips seemed fuller, drawn out of their hard line into something resembling a lazy half-smile. The tilt of his deep-set eyes and angle of the brow above wasn't stern or scowling, as usual, but relaxed and at ease and, if her gaze didn't deceive her, perhaps a bit unsure or—dare she think it?—shy.

He seemed younger like this, with his hair loose and his shoulders free of their customary tension. Mena thought that when he smiled, he must be the most handsome man God had ever molded of this earth.

She swallowed, doing her best to ignore the warmth beginning to glow deep in her belly, and lower.

“I think I'd be more comfortable in perpetual darkness,” he murmured.

“Why?”

His shoulders heaved with a weighty breath, pressing deeper against hers. “Do ye believe that the things we've done in the dark will be answered for in the light of day?”

“I certainly hope so.” She nodded.

He searched her face then, lifting a hand to draw away a tendril of hair the breeze had blown across her cheek. “Perhaps because ye have a clear conscience.”

“I don't, I assure you.” She turned away from his fingers, unable to bear the sweet memory of his skin against hers. Unwilling to give words to the message in his eyes.

He dropped his hand to his lap. “Perhaps, then, because ye hope that someone answer for their crimes against ye.”

Tears burned behind her eyes, and Mena dipped her chin against her chest. It was the darkest desire in her heart. That her husband answer for all the times he'd caused her terror and pain.

How had he guessed?

“Because,” he answered gently, alarming her with the discovery she'd spoken the question out loud. “I ken what it's like to fear the darkness, Mena, and to hate the man who beat that fear into me.”

Mena felt the rough pads of his fingers drift over her down-turned cheek. When he reached her chin, he gripped it softly between his thumb and forefinger, lifting her face toward his.

“I find myself in the middle of a dance I doona ken the steps to,” he admitted, his eyes gilded by an unholy light as they searched hers for something she could not give him. “When ye're near me, I doona know what to say or how to act. I canna figure what platitudes to give ye. I never learned the soft words that would reach through the walls that ye've built around yer heart.”

Though she didn't allow herself to blink, Mena could still feel tears gathering in her lashes. She needed him to stop. She should pull away. But God help her, she couldn't tear her gaze from the abject beauty of his face.

“I doona know which urge to act upon and which to suppress, but I want ye with a strength that even the gods canna understand … even though I canna always tell if it's fear or desire I see reflected in yer eyes.”

Because it was both, Mena knew. Fear of him. Fear of the desire she felt for him. Of the things she wanted to do again in the dark.

“It was written in those stars that we meet.” His voice gathered a tender fervency that unstitched something from inside Mena's soul. “We are bound in some inescapable way, thee and me. I've known it since I first laid eyes on ye in
that
dress.”

Mena wanted to deny it. To shake her head and make him stop whatever it was he was about to say. But she knew she could not. Though her heart threatened to gallop away, her body was frozen in place. A captive of his warm, gentle hand.

“Don't.” She whispered a tortured plea as she wrapped her fingers around his wrist, meaning to push his hand away. “It's impossible.” She was married. She was a fugitive.

She was unworthy of a man such as this.

“It's impossible to deny it, lass.” He smiled down at her, and Mena suddenly knew that one could feel the warm rays of the sun even in the dark of night. “Try as ye will to resist me, I'm after ye, Mena, and I willna claim ye until ye yield. But I'll not stop until every last one of yer defenses are in ashes at my feet.”

Down below, a large horn blared loud and long enough to break the spell he'd cast over her.

“They're calling for me, lass.” Before she could move, he brushed his lips against hers, then turned over the wall and leaped to his feet. “Ye will be, too, before I'm done with ye.”

 

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

Twin bonfires roared and crackled amidst the festival grounds, blazing as high as a two-story London row house and half as wide. Mena sipped on the spiced cider she'd mixed with Scotch and hoped no one had noticed. Highlanders seemed very adamantly against blending their Scotch with nectars and such, but she hadn't the constitution yet to sip it alone, though she was trying to build to it.

A crowd of several hundred guests circled the twin infernos as gamekeepers and farmers drove their most prized livestock between the fires to purify and bless herds through winter. Bones of the cows, pigs, and various fowl used to feed so many were dried, kissed, blessed, and tossed into the flames, lending the air a succulent aroma. If Mena hadn't already been full to sick from her copious meal, her mouth would have watered.

“You are in luck, Miss Mena, they are about to start the ritual.” Jani appeared at her elbow, dressed this evening as a glittering gold maharaja. His turban shimmered with gems, the largest in the center of the headdress, from which a tall peacock feather sprouted.

“Jani, don't you look regal?” Mena exclaimed.

His dusky skin glowed with pleasure. “You are kind, Miss Mena, but I am muted next to your beautiful self.”

“Go on, you.” She elbowed him good-naturedly and went back to watching the increasingly foreign ceremony. “What ritual is this, exactly? I've never seen the like.”

Jani's black eyes reflected the light of the bonfire, turning a tiger gold. “Even in this modern age, Highlanders are superstitious people. The harsh Scottish winters are especially dangerous for livestock, and this ritual the Mackenzie is about to perform will petition the gods to protect the cattle and sheep.”

“I see,” she breathed, before the ability to speak was stolen from her.

A lone pipe blared, silencing the crowd with its piercing, mystical song. Then the Mackenzie Laird appeared between the fires, and a reverent murmur weaved through the night.

Here
stood her ancient barbarian. The one from the canvas in the hall. Clad in nothing but his kilt and boots, Liam Mackenzie radiated primitive, elemental power. His arms and torso were packed with even more muscle than Mena had remembered, and gleamed like tawny velvet in the firelight.

Something dark and unbidden unfurled in Mena's body, tightening her features with a primal hunger and softening her feminine muscles to welcome him. She'd fought the very idea when he'd warned her of his impossible intentions on the roof. But looking at him as he was now, the incarnation of an ancient Druid warrior, she couldn't remember any impediment to his absolute possession of her.

The fire illuminated black and blue runes adorning his chest and arms starting just beneath his rib cage and knotting over and around his nipples, his shoulders, his throat, and finely crawling up his sculpted jaw.

Cuffs of solid gold circled above the swells of his biceps, his wrists, and his neck. His hair ruffled in the breezes, but as close to the flames as he stood, there was no conceivable way he marked the chill of the evening. The ebony of his unbound hair fell to the middle of his back and matched the shadow stubbling his jaw. The two braids over his shoulder teased at his beruned collarbone.

Surveying his people with unabashed pride and satisfaction, Liam found her where she stood at the crowd's periphery. The look he sent her was so full of sensual promise, Mena's body released a wet flood of thigh-clenching arousal.

How could he provoke her with just a look? How on earth was she to ever resist such temptation?

Because you
must,
she admonished herself.

Whatever he read on her features inspired a glance of such victorious self-satisfaction on his face, she suddenly wanted to throw something at him.

Something like herself, perhaps.

Jani waved to him, oblivious to their unspoken interaction. “The laird has only missed one Samhain since his father died,” he informed her, “and on that year, there was blight on the cattle. So the people demand that every year he is here for the ritual.”

Mena tore her gaze away from the overwhelming sight that was the Laird of the Mackenzie clan. “You don't really believe that driving a few cattle through two bonfires and saying a spell has anything to do with the survival of the livestock herds, do you?” she asked skeptically.

Jani shrugged. “Who is to say, Miss Mena? The story is that Liam Mackenzie, his father, and all Lairds of the Mackenzie of Wester Ross are descended from an ancient royal Pictish line that mingled with invaders from the north. It is said they carry the blood of the Lachlan berserker in their veins.”

“Berserker?” Mena queried.

“Yes, a mythic Nordic warrior who gains the strength of ten men and incomparable ferocity at the sight of blood.” He sent her a meaningful glance. “Sound familiar?”

“I thought it was said he was possessed of a
Brollachan
.”

Jani gave another of his very quick shrugs. “Highlanders say lots of things. Telling stories is one of their favorite pastimes.”

She glanced back at the laird, who lifted his face to the stars, as did his congregation, and sang in a surprisingly lovely baritone to the sky in that lyrical language Mena didn't understand. His delicious brogue lent such a potent sensuality to the prayer that he could very well be seducing a lover rather than symbolically blessing herds of livestock.

Mena was struck not just by his masculine beauty, but also by the beauty of his people gathered around, their faces warm with whisky, ale, and rapture as they repeated parts of the lovely verses, cheering as each herder finished driving his choice few symbolic animals between the fires to finish the blessing.

The rite wasn't long, formal, or ponderous as the mild Protestant services she'd attended growing up had been, and before she knew it, the spell was over. A bagpipe blared, and then another, until four pipers placed at the north, south, east, and western points of the circle lifted their wailing tunes in perfect synchronization.

A young child toddled too close to one of the bonfires, and Ravencroft swept her up and flung her high before settling her giggling body on his massive shoulders. He patiently ignored her playful tugs on his braids as, one by one, middle-aged or wizened women stepped forward to light torches in the fire before leading entire families in their wake.

“What are they doing now?” Mena asked Jani.

Jani gestured to the older women. “The reigning matriarch of each family must take the ritual fire home to her hearth. If their house is close, then she'll take it to the village tonight. If not, she'll take it to the tent and tend the coals until they travel safely home and ignite in their own dark fireplace. The Druid-blessed Samhain fire keeps them safe over the coming winter.”

“How lovely,” Mena murmured, as she marveled at how quickly the crowd began to disperse, each family following their matriarch back to where she would take the blessed flame.

She noted that the young father of the errant child affixed to Liam's shoulders had wound his way to his laird. Liam tossed the little one up, eliciting one last squeal of delight, before he settled her back in the young man's grateful arms. The men exchanged what Mena imagined to be paternal smiles and words of exasperation over mischievous young daughters before they locked forearms in a traditional show of kinship.

An emotion gathered in Mena's throat in the form of a lump that refused to be swallowed. Did Ravencroft want more babies? Would he like another chance to raise children from the beginning? Were he ever to marry again, he was most definitely virile enough to father many sweet, dark-haired little ones.

Little ones she could never have.

Frustrated tears welled in her eyes.
It didn't matter,
she reminded herself firmly. None of it mattered, as a relationship between them was as unattainable as the stars. She knew it, and eventually, he would as well.

Miserably, she watched him move through the throngs of his clan. Women doted on him, using any excuse to touch his exposed skin the color of his own famous whisky. She could see from her vantage that though some people feared him, the women desired him, and the men respected him. Be he the
Brollachan
or the berserker, his people flourished beneath his leadership, and they
loved
him for it. How could he not know that?

A man like him would be easy to love.

Once the word amalgamated out of the universal impossibilities of the future and the terrifying rifts of the past, Mena realized that she was utterly lost.

She hadn't
fallen
in love with Liam Mackenzie. No, she'd drifted into it in subtle shifts. The moment they'd met had been like the whisper of a storm kissing a hot, humid day with a blessed chill. The promise of something dark and exciting gathered on the horizon, and Mena had watched that storm rumble closer with every instant they'd spent together. Every time she'd banked the fires that blazed in his eyes. Every time he'd ignited heat into her cold heart. He'd chipped a bit of her resistance away and replaced it with the force of his raw, unbridled passion. He shared with her what men rarely did, and he unveiled the darkest parts of himself for her to see. Illuminating them not only to her eyes, but to his own and his children's in an attempt to try and be better. He wanted her to understand him more so that she feared him less.