The Highlander's Claim (Highland Romance) Page 10

  All I know for certain is that there is a connection between us. It is indefinable and is something I do not understand, but I know it is there, and I know that it is real. At least, for me. That I haven’t stopped thinking of him for ten years is proof of that.

  I am so caught up in my thoughts that I do not realize the world around me has fallen silent at first. But I feel a prickle on the back of my neck, and I suddenly feel as if I am being observed. I turn around, looking everywhere at once. The birds in the trees are still, the sound of their songs absent, and nothing stirs in the undergrowth, and a chilling feeling of dread steals over me. The sound of a twig snapping somewhere behind the screen of trees and bushes is as loud as a peal of thunder in the silence. My heart leaps into my throat, and I instinctively move my arms up to cover my bare breasts.

  “H - hello?” I call. “Who is out there?”

  My greeting goes unanswered, but the heavy, oppressive feeling of being watched persists. Goose flesh marches across my body, and I turn in a circle, straining my eyes as I peer through the bushes, trying to get a look at who is spying on me.

  “Malcolm,” I call out. “Is that you?”

  A low, rumbling laugh drifts out of the bushes and chills me to the bone. I quickly turn back to the table, reaching for the tunic I left to put on once I’d finished washing − only to find it gone. Looking around, I spot it hanging on a bush about ten feet away. It is most definitely not where I left it, and to retrieve it, I’ll need to get out of the pond. Naked.

  A loud crashing sounds in the bushes off to my left, and I spin around, my heart thundering in my breast. It nearly stops dead, though, when something large splashes into the pond behind me. A sharp squeal bursts from my throat as I spin back around only to catch the wave and the spray from the impact square in the face. I wipe the water away as fast as I can, clearing my eyes to see, certain I am about to be murdered only to find Malcolm standing waist-deep in the pond, a wide smile on his face his laughter splitting the air, rumbling along my skin.

  “Malcolm Dunbarr,” I hiss, tightening my arms over my breasts protectively. “You scoundrel. How dare you.”

  “Oh, so you finally figured it out then?” he grins. “I knew you were smart, lass.”

  I glare at him, feeling positively scandalized by his presence in the pond with me. I open my mouth to give him a proper dressing down, but nothing comes out. My face burns with heat, but I seem unable to tear my eyes away from his body. My gaze lingers on the tightly corded muscles of his arms, the hard planes of his chest, and his flat, taut stomach.

  “Like what you see, then?” he chuckles.

  “You are a fiend.”

  “Aye. Sometimes,” he replies.

  The sunlight glistens off the beads of water that cling to skin and roll down the muscles that ripple beneath his skin. I am suddenly overwhelmed by the insane desire to run my tongue along those corded muscles and taste the water directly off his skin. The mere thought of it sends a flush of heat through my face − and parts of my body I’m not accustomed to feeling that sort of warmth. The embarrassment I feel allows me to finally look away.

  I take a couple of moments to gather myself. Then after clearing my throat, I turn back, giving him the frostiest, most regal glare I can manage.

  “What do you imagine you are doing?” I ask.

  “Same as you I imagine − washing,” he replies. “I have a lot of road dust to wash off.”

  “I could have your head for daring presume to present yourself in this manner,” I say. “I cannot believe you would − I am bathing, Malcolm!”

  He shrugs. “My land. My bathing spot,” he says. “Therefore, my rules.”

  He steps closer, his gaze burning into mine, and I swallow hard, feeling my heart drunkenly stumble over itself. Our eyes are firmly locked, and it feels like a swarm of butterflies is loose in my stomach, battering my insides relentlessly. A gentle smile on his face, he takes a step toward me, and I take a shuffling step back, trying to step out of range of the heat emanating from his body not out of fear of what he might do, but out of fear of what I might do.

  He smiles at me and takes another step closer. My stomach lurches, and the heat between my thighs grows ever more intense. The air between us feels charged, like the air just before a lightning strike, and my mouth is suddenly dry as a bone.

  “Wh - what do you want?” I stammer.

  “Well, that soap you’re squeezin’ the life out of would be a good start.”

  I look down and realize that I am indeed pulverizing the chunk of soap I forgot I was holding. I hand it over with an awkward smile. Never taking his eyes off me, Malcolm begins soaping himself up. I turn away, trying to not notice the way the water and soap slide down his skin and muscle, making his body shine − trying to not notice that he looks like a statue of one of the old gods or heroes from legend, carved from stone and brought to life.

  I want more than anything to get out of the pond and go back to the house. But I obviously can’t with my tunic out of reach. I do my best to ignore the surge of emotion swirling around inside of me and stifle the inappropriate thoughts I’m having. I clear my throat and turn to Malcolm, glaring at him coolly.

  “You moved my tunic,” I say firmly, trying to regain some semblance of control.

  Malcolm grins lasciviously. “Now, why would I do that? It’s not like I haven’t seen you naked already.”

  My mouth falls open, and my eyes grow wide. “You said you didn’t stare!”

  “True. And I didn’t stare,” he says. “But I never said I didn’t peek.”

  Malcolm laughs like it is the funniest thing in the world, and as he does, I see the boy he used to be. He is far bigger and has the hardened, gruff look of a man but still seems very much like a mischievous, brash boy. I do not know why, but I find that to be somehow comforting to me.

  I try to hold onto the anger my embarrassment has caused me, try to skewer him with nothing more than my eyes, but I can’t stop the smile from quirking my lips upward. I look away, not wanting to encourage him and try to regain my composure − which is not an easy thing to do whilst standing naked in a pond with a man who fills my head with such inappropriate thoughts.

  “My tunic −”

  “I actually think that’s my tunic,” he interrupts.

  I sigh. “Fine. The tunic I was wearing. You moved it out of my reach.”

  “I did not.”

  “You did too,” I snap, rolling my eyes at how childish we sound.

  “Did you see me move it then?”

  I narrow my eyes, glaring hard at him. “Go and fetch my tunic for me.”

  “Spoken like a true noblewoman,” he chuckles. “But that’s okay; I’ll go and fetch your ladyship’s tunic so long as you don’t mind seeing my swinging coc −”

  I hold up a hand to cut him off. I don’t want to hear anymore − half-afraid I’ll laugh and encourage him to continue being a scoundrel. Also, because there is some small piece inside of me that desires to see every last inch of his flesh, and I wish to do nothing that will give me away.

  I cut a quick glance at him, relishing his tan skin and hard, corded muscles. I feel my insides warming and feel myself growing slick as I imagine the feel of his lips upon mine. Of feeling his hard body pressed against me. My stomach flutters as my thinking devolves even further − thoughts I should be ashamed of having.

  Knowing how improper my desires are, I stifle them ruthlessly. But I know I do need to shut him up and show him that I am not somebody who will be teased and taunted. I need to show him my strength. And maybe at the same time, frustrate him as much as I myself am frustrated.

  Turning around, I stiffen my spine and try to quell the churning in my stomach as I walk out of the pond. I walk to the bush and yank the tunic down, slipping it on over my head. I smooth it down and pull my hair back, wringing the water out of it, being as casual and deliberate about it as I can be.

  I turn around and see Malcolm staring at me with his m
outh hanging open, a look of the purest desire coloring his features. Unable to resist, I give him a mischievous smirk of my own before I turn around and walk back to the house.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Malcolm

  I watch her disappear through the bushes as she heads up the path that will lead her back to the house. Frankly, I’m stunned she had the backbone to do what she just did. I knew there was strength in her, but I didn’t think she had the stones to walk naked out of the pond in front of me like that.

  But what a glorious sight it was. She has, without a doubt, the loveliest backside I have ever seen. I’m just glad she went back to the house, or I’d be stuck in this bloody pond for a while since I’m not keen on getting out while I’m still sporting a rigid cock.

  I finish washing up, and by the time I’m done, I’m more or less back in control of myself again. I fish a clean tunic out of the pack I left in the bushes, belt it, and slip my boots back on before I take the path back to the house. I stop before going in to give my horse a couple of apples from my pack and stroke her neck.

  When I step through the door, I find Catherine sitting at the table. She looks up and doesn’t say anything but pours me a cup of tea as I sit down across from her. Tendrils of steam curl upward as I lift my cup, so I blow on it before taking a sip.

  “Thank you for this,” I raise my cup to her. “It hits the spot.”

  “Of course,” she says quietly.

  I take another sip then give her a smile. “You surprised me out at the pond,” I tell her. “I did not expect you to do that.”

  “I’m a surprising woman.”

  “Aye. That you are.”

  A small smile flicks across her lips, but it quickly melts away. Then there is a long silence between us, and she wears an inscrutable expression on her face. There’s a tension hanging in the air that’s only growing thicker the longer we sit here not speaking to one another.

  It seems so strange to me that I’ve thought about her for so long, that for so many years, I’ve wanted a chance to have another conversation with her, and yet now, that we’re sitting here, face to face, I can’t think of a bloody thing to say. I clear my throat and take another sip of tea.

  “So, how did you figure it out? Who I am,” I finally manage to ask.

  She points to the vase of flowers, a small smile touching her lips. “I − remembered − the flower,” she says. “The one you gave me in the market that day.”

  “You have a good memory.”

  “As do you apparently,” she tells me.

  “I remember the things that are important to me.”

  Her cheeks redden, and she looks away. In that moment, she looks so vulnerable and so innocent. She looks like the angel I remember her being all those years ago. I still see traces of that young girl I met in the market, but she has grown into the body of a woman. She’s enticingly rounded through the hips and the breasts, and her legs have grown longer and more shapely.

  Her hair has gone from the color of burnished copper to a deeper and more luxurious shade of red. Her eyes still sparkle the way I remember, and her skin, the color of alabaster, seems to glow with some warm, inner light. Simply put, she’s gone from beautiful to radiant. If I had to choose one word to describe her, it would be ethereal.

  “Oh, before I forget…”

  She watches silently as I stand and walk back to my saddlebags. Flipping one of them open, I pull out a box and carry it back to the table with me, sliding it across to her as I sit down.

  “What is this?” she asks.

  “Open it and find out.”

  With a smile on her lips and a curious expression on her face, she pulls the lid off the box and sets it aside. Reaching into the box, she pulls out the three wool dresses I brought back for her. They’re simple dresses and aren’t something a proper lady would let herself be caught dead in. But, they’re well-made and will suffice for now. As much as I would not mind it, I can’t have her running around here in naught but my tunic.

  “I know they’re not as nice as what you’re used to,” I say. “But we don’t have a lot of use for silk gowns up here.”

  A wan smile touches her lips as she runs her fingers gently over the fabric and stares down at them. There’s an inscrutable look in her eye. She looks pensive with a touch of sadness.

  “So I am to be your prisoner then,” a statement, not a question.

  “No lass,” I say, keeping my tone light. “You’re my guest, and I probably shouldn’t have you running around wearing my clothes. What would people think?”

  She doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even crack a smile in fact. Catherine obviously doesn’t like even the vaguest notion that she’s a prisoner. Not that I can blame her for that.

  “So if I’m not your prisoner, I can leave whenever I want?” she asks. “You’ll take me back to Caldryn House?”

  I sigh and rub my hand over my mouth. There really is no easy way around it. She’s not my prisoner − at least, I don’t want to call her that. But then, I can’t exactly let her leave either. With everything that is happening, she’s too valuable a chit to be holding. So it seems I’m fucked either way.

  “I’d like to see you get your strength back before we decide anything one way or another,” I tell her.

  She doesn’t say anything to that, but I can see the conflict on her face. I can see part of her is afraid. Afraid of me, of this situation, of − everything right about now. But I see something else in her eyes too. I can’t say for certain what it is I see, but it almost looks like − relief. What would she have to feel relieved about though? Not having to go back to her castle on the hill? Not having to go back to her uncle? If that’s the case, I can’t blame her for that either. In her place, I’d rather sail to the end of the world than be anywhere near that family.

  “You know, I’ve thought about you every day since we met in the market,” I admit. “And I’m guessing since you recognized the flowers, you’ve spared a thought or two for me as well.”

  I flash her a grin, and although she is pointedly not looking at me, I see her cheeks coloring. And despite her best efforts to not betray any emotion on her face, the corners of her mouth curl upward anyway. Catherine clears her throat, seeming to gather herself, and finally looks up at me.

  “You may presume too much,” she says, a playful tone in her voice.

  “Do I?” I ask. “Are you certain of that?”

  But then her smile falters and fades away completely as she looks up at me. I see the questions and concerns in her eyes and want nothing more than to allay them. But I fear I won’t be able to. At least, not entirely.

  “Why are you keeping me here?” she asks.

  Her tone is curious, not angry as I would have expected. I debate with myself about how much to tell her. I know anything I say is going to make her feel like a pawn in a larger game. And I suppose that’s not far from the truth. But there’s more to it than that for me − I just don’t know if now is the time to indulge myself in that. Not while the fate of my clan − my people − hangs in the balance.

  “My uncle will be angry,” she says as a statement of fact, not a threat. “He will do terrible things to your people, Malcolm. You saw what he did to that village.”

  Anger colors my cheeks and sets the blood boiling beneath my skin. It also fills me with an overwhelming grief as I think back to what he did to my father and brother. I open my mouth and nearly let it spill out, but I don’t want to trouble her with that right now. What happened to them is not her fault. I don’t want her taking that onto herself, which she seems the type to do. There is only one person responsible for it − her uncle.

  “He already has done terrible things. Many terrible things,” I say more harshly than I intended. “Interestingly enough though, he hasn’t sent his men out to search for you yet. I’ve been wondering the last couple of days why that is.”

  Her eyes widen in surprise, and I see that’s news to her. That expression is followed by a look of
anger or perhaps hurt, but I can see it’s not directed at me. And then her expression changes once again to one of resigned acceptance, and she sighs.

  “No, I suppose he wouldn’t,” she says.

  It seems a strange thing to say, so I cock my head and look at her, waiting for her to go on. She doesn’t though. Instead, she seems to fold in on herself.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “Nothing. It’s fine.”

  I chuckle and lean back in my seat. “Doesn’t seem like it to me.”

  “Well what do you know?” she lashes out, her voice angry.

  Catherine gets to her feet and storms out of the house, leaving me sitting there feeling like an ass. With a sigh, I stand and go to the larder to find the bottle of wine I’d stashed after coming home. It seems like a good time to uncork it. Many a peace treaty has been made over wine. I find a couple of clay mugs and wipe them out with an old cloth before pouring a pair of glasses. I carry the bottle and mugs outside with me.

  Catherine is standing at the low wall that surrounds the house staring out into the world beyond, her arms crossed beneath her breasts, the very embodiment of rage. I walk out and stand beside her, but she stares straight ahead. Even in profile, with her face pinched with anger, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Even now, after all these years, she makes my heart pound without even trying.

  I hold out the mug to her − a peace offering. “I don’t have any fancy crystal glasses,” I say. “But it still drinks the same.”

  Catherine hesitates a moment but then reaches out and takes the mug from me. She gazes down at it, and I can see her trying to keep the look of distaste off her face. Still not looking at me or speaking, she takes a sip of the wine. I give her the time she needs, and the longer we stand there, the more relaxed her posture becomes. Finally, she lets out a long breath and turns to me.