To Love a Highland Dragon (7 page)

He’d told her that he was sorry, but he had to leave because danger nipped at his heels. He couldn’t give her details because it might put her at risk. Lachlan had gone on to say he hoped they’d meet again and that she was pretty. On a separate line near the bottom, just above his signature, Lachlan Moncrieffe, Laird of Clan Moncrieffe, he’d told her not to trust strangers, and that he’d return if he could.

Maggie clutched the paper close. A tear snaked down one cheek.
Why am I crying? I barely knew him.
Her attempt to reason with herself was futile. In defiance of logic, a sad, slow tide washed through her and made her heart ache. She picked up her car keys, ready to head out and look for him, but forced herself to sit. In her heart of hearts, she knew she’d never be able to find him if he didn’t wish to be found.

Lachlan had watched Maggie walk out the door. It took all his considerable self-discipline not to race after her, drag her back inside, and rip those ridiculous clothes off her. If ever there were a lass made for loving, it was her. For long moments, he visualized her without clothes. It wasn’t difficult since she’d scarcely been wearing any when he’d first laid eyes on her.

He shook his head, rose, and slid the deadbolt into place before making a transit of the room. He picked up books at random and paged through a few. They looked like scientific works with full-color depictions of bits and pieces of the human body. At first he marveled that someone had so fine a hand as to pen such drawings; closer inspection told him the illustrations couldn’t possibly have been hand drawn.

He blew out a heavy breath. Mankind had obviously come a long way in three hundred years, much further than they’d come in the previous three hundred. A stranger displaced from 1300 to 1600 would have noticed a few differences but nothing like this. He polished the rest of his food and carried their plates to the kitchen, setting them on a sideboard.

“No kitchen wenches,” he muttered. “Probably no more servants of any kind.” He pulled open cupboards and drawers, inspecting an array of pottery and cutlery. A few items had long, black tails attached to them. Some of the tails had been cunningly shoved into holes in the wall. He flicked a silver knob, and the item in front of him buzzed loudly. Lachlan started, returned the knob to its original position, and shook his head.
What in the hell did I turn loose?
He stared at tiny blades whirling in a circle at the base of a glass cylinder until they came to a stop. Try as he might, he couldn’t fathom a use for such a thing.

Careful not to move any other knobs or buttons, he settled in front of the cold box; it held an intriguing array of fruit and vegetables, cheese and meat. He tasted a few items, surprised that things he recognized—like blackberries—were so bland.

“What are we doing here?”
Kheladin’s voice was annoyed, sharp, as he repeated a variant of his question from earlier.

“Waiting for the lass to return.”

“We canna risk remaining in one place for long until we determine if Rhukon yet lives.”

“We havena been here verra long. I wish to bathe. Then if the lass hasna returned, we can pick up this conversation.”

Something like a slow twisting in his midsection told Lachlan the dragon was restless and near to rebellion.
“Bedding her was a good idea when we dinna have to wait. I doona have a good feeling about remaining here. In fact,”
the dragon hesitated for emphasis,
“I sense a trap.”

Have I grown so soft and unobservant?
Lachlan sent his mage senses spinning outward and waited for information to flow back to him. He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.
“Things feel…strange to me, mayhap because everything has changed. I do not sense Rhukon’s presence, though. Do ye?”

“Not exactly,”
Kheladin admitted grudgingly.
“But we canna be too careful.”

“Agreed.”
Lachlan fired his mage light and walked down the hall to the bathroom. On a whim, he opened the door across the hall. Her bedchamber. The scraps of clothing she’d been wearing were tossed on the end of a rumpled bed. Maggie’s scent hit him like a wall. Sensual and enticing, it stopped him in his tracks. He inhaled deeply and his cock, never far from hard since he’d met Maggie, thumped against his belly.

He tried to back out of the bedroom, but it was as if his feet had grown roots into the carpeted floor. All he could think about was sex: bouncing breasts and hot, slick cunnies. His balls ached for release. He shoved a hand beneath his kilt and wrapped it around himself. What would it take? Surely not more than a few strokes. He pumped his swollen member into his hand and groaned. The lass wakened something primal in him. He couldn’t remember being this aroused—ever.

An image of her tall, well-muscled form danced before his closed lids. He imagined suckling her full breasts with their generous nipples that had been visible beneath what passed for clothing. In his fantasy, she threw herself on the bed in front of him and opened her long legs in invitation. Before he could enter her, he exploded into his hand.

A feral shriek split the stillness of Maggie’s bedroom. Lachlan almost couldn’t believe the primitive sound had come from him. He caught what he could of his seed in his hand and stood gasping for air, heart hammering. Semen dripping from his fisted hand tugged him back to the present. He hastened into the bathroom, rinsed himself at the sink, and then bent to fill the tub.

An hour later, he emerged clean and scrubbed. Lachlan took a last look around the bathroom, marveling at its modern plumbing. He’d let the hot water run until it turned cold. What warmed it was still a mystery, but one he was sure could be easily solved once Maggie returned, and he asked her about it. He picked up his shirt and wove his plaid around himself before returning to the front room. He thought about passing more time in the lass’s bedchamber, but it felt perverse to surround himself with her bedclothes and work himself until he spent, again and again.

Nay, better to wait till I have the real thing.
Lachlan laughed, pleased with how things were going. The lass was just as besotted with him as he was with her. He’d scented her arousal, seen heat-lust mist her eyes. His cock swelled, and Lachlan forced his mind to other things.

He’d just settled into a softly padded chair, mage light suspended off to one side and a book in his lap, when a chill marched down his spine. Lachlan straightened. He hadn’t liked the feel of the stray bolt of power, almost as if someone were searching for him. He held himself very still, shrouding his energy. Ach, there it was again, a slow, cautious questing from a well-shielded source that was likely Rhukon. He strengthened his warding.

“I told you we should have left.”

“Quiet. The dragon energy is a dead giveaway.”

Lachlan cast a subtle
don’t look here
spell, gratified when the alien tendrils withdrew. He sat dead still for long minutes to make certain whatever he’d felt was truly gone.
Did Rhukon find me?
He had no way of knowing.

Kheladin jostled him, radiating displeasure. Smoke curled from Lachlan’s mouth. Talons pressed against the ends of his fingers and toes.
“Stop that. I have to think.”

“Ye can think once we have left. I have no desire to be trapped within a space that wouldna hold me if we shift.”

Lachlan’s gaze drifted around Maggie’s home. Kheladin had a point. The rooms were much smaller than what he was used to, sized more like a peasant’s hovel than a proper house.

Maggie.
He blew out a sad breath, not fully understanding why the prospect of abandoning her left him so desolate. Maybe it was because she was the first person he’d met upon wakening, yet it felt much deeper than that. Almost as if they’d known one another in a previous life.

No matter. ’Tisn’t fair to remain if I bring danger into her life.
A fierce protectiveness stirred in his breast at the thought of anyone harming the lass. He’d pit himself against anything that harmed so much as an eyelash or frightened her or made her feel uneasy.

“That is all fine and well. We must leave while we can,”
Kheladin insisted.

”I agree. I would use magic to transport us back to the cave. What think ye?”

The dragon was silent so long, Lachlan started to ask again, but Kheladin spoke before he got the words out.
“We will know more outside these walls. The lass’s scent muddles things. ’Tis much like a potion.”

Lachlan trusted the dragon’s instincts; they were usually sharper than his own. He moved the books on his lap to the floor, got to his feet, and picked up his sword belt, buckling it securely into place. Nothing more to do but leave. Why was such a simple thing so difficult? He snatched up his cloak.

A note. He owed her at least that. Lachlan strode to the desk and pulled drawers open until he found parchment, though it felt pathetically thin, and a stick he ascertained would write, once he fiddled with removing its end piece. He considered what to say. He didn’t want to give her information that might compromise her safety. In the end, he merely adjured her to take care, told her she was a bonny lass, and said he hoped their paths would cross again.

He stared at the piece of paper, came close to crumpling it and starting again, but that damned alien power slammed into his ward. Not subtle this time or questing. It was as if whatever was out there was certain they’d found him and aimed to do something about it.

Lachlan prepared himself for battle, expecting Rhukon—or one of his minions—to break into Maggie’s home at any second. He gathered power, held it balanced between his hands. It sizzled, giving the air a burnt smell. Long moments passed.

“’Tis trying to lure me outside,”
he told Kheladin.
“’Tis a risk, but a lesser one, to conjure traveling magic.”

When the dragon didn’t answer, Lachlan began to chant. He warmed to his spell after a short time. Like everything else, his mage skills—at least the ones demanding more than the simplest magics—were rusty. The walls of Maggie’s living room wavered, solidified, and shimmered again. On his third try, Lachlan began to panic. He’d just pulled enough power to light a small town, surely alerting any enemy within a fifty league radius to his presence. If he couldn’t transport himself and the dragon to the cave, he’d have to fight goddess-only-knew-who right here. Without Kheladin’s help, since there wasn’t space to shift.

Sweat ran down his face and sides. It stung where it ran into his eyes. In desperation, he nearly dropped his warding to pour his full power into what should have been a neophyte’s spell, when he felt the tightening in his stomach that meant they were in the in-between place—the one that could open to any destination in this world or any other. He realized his eyes were screwed shut and pried them open onto blackness.

“Thank the mother goddess,” he breathed, shocked at how weak his magic had become.

“We are far from safe. Do not disperse your warding as ye were about to do.”
Censure rang in the dragon’s words.
“’Tis not all you,”
Kheladin continued.
“There is something amiss in this world. It fights against magic. Competes with it.”

“Bloody good there’s a reason.”
Lachlan struggled to catch his breath. The darkness yielded to gray. Moments later, the walls of Kheladin’s cave materialized around him. He sank into the sand and poured handfuls through fingers that were trying to morph into claws. Lachlan didn’t fight the transformation; he welcomed it, unwinding his clothing so it wouldn’t end up in a heap of tatters. If wickedness followed them, they were better off in Kheladin’s form. He sank deep inside the dragon’s scaled body and gazed through his whirling green eyes.

With his wings stretched to their full span, nearly touching the sides of the cave, Kheladin trumpeted a challenge. Smoke and fire belched from his mouth. Lachlan reveled in the dragon’s strength. The first time he’d experienced Kheladin’s latent power, Lachlan got so drunk on it he hadn’t slept for days.

“Look sharp,”
the dragon hissed.
“Something comes. I need you present, not daydreaming.”

Lachlan stretched his senses through the dragon’s. Indeed, a subliminal thrumming set his nerves on edge. Without access to Kheladin’s preternatural senses, he’d never have sorted it out from stray magical impulses pinging through the ether.

He pushed farther, extending himself to the ragged edges of his ability, amplified by Kheladin’s. Someone with great power drew near, yet the power didn’t have a corrupt feel about it. A gout of dragon fire scored the far wall of the cave, lighting it bright as day.

“Hold.”
Lachlan made his voice stern. Kheladin ignored him. The next spray of flames shot high into the air.
“Damn ye! Hold. It may not be a foe. We willna know, if ye toast them to cinders afore they set foot on the floor of our cave.”

“What I felt in the lass’s hovel held deep evil. Ye were scarcely subtle getting us here. Your casting left a trail a league wide for them to come after us.”

Lachlan winced at the unpleasant truth. Once upon a time, he’d been a better magician than that—one of the strongest in all of England, Scotland, and the Gaelic kingdoms. He’d regain his ability, but mayhap not quickly enough to save them from ruin. He picked his words with care to secure the dragon’s cooperation.
“Aye. I sensed the evil as well. Yet what I feel here is different. If ye’d stop tossing fire about like a lamplighter gone mad, ye could test it for yourself.”

Kheladin grunted. He lifted his great snout and snuffled loudly. Lachlan held his breath, waiting. Rather than speaking internally, the dragon called, “Show yourself. Now. Or I shall burn you to ashes.”

Lachlan grimaced. Not the most attractive greeting, but it should do the job. If whoever lurked wasn’t their enemy, they should come forth.
He had to admit to curiosity. Surely other magic-wielders besides witches had survived through the years he and the dragon slumbered.