Spell of the Highlander

Page 66

Eleven centuries of captivity. Hung on his hated enemy’s study wall. Eleven centuries of not touching. Not eating. Not loving. Had he had anyone to talk to?
Her face must have betrayed her thoughts, for he startled her by saying softly, “‘Tis no longer of consequence, lass, but thank you for the compassion. ’Tis nigh over. Seventeen more days, Jessica. That’s all.”
For some reason his words brought a sudden hot burn of tears to the backs of her eyes. Not only hadn’t eleven centuries turned him into a monster, he was trying to soothe her, to make her feel better about his imprisonment.
“You weep for me, woman?”
She turned away. “It’s been a long day. Hell, it’s been a long week.”
“Jessica.” Her name was a soft command.
She disobeyed it, staring out the window at the rolling hills.
“Jessica, look at me.”
Eyes bright with unshed tears, she whipped her head around and glared at him. “I weep for you, okay?” she snapped. “For eleven centuries stuck in there. Can I start driving again or do you need something else?”
He smiled faintly, raised his hand, and splayed his palm against the inside of the silvery glass.
Without an ounce of conscious thought, her hand rose to meet his, aligning on the cool silver, palm to palm, finger to finger, thumb to thumb. And though she felt only a cold hardness beneath her palm, the gesture made something go all warm and soft in her heart.
Neither of them spoke or moved for a moment.
Then she glanced hastily away, fished a napkin from the fast-food bags, blew her nose, shifted into drive, and resumed their winding ascent into the rugged Scottish Highlands.
Gloaming in the Highlands.
It had taken him most of the day to find the caves he’d played in as a lad.
The terrain had changed greatly over the past thousand years, and new roads and homes had made it difficult to recognize landmarks he’d once thought immutable and uniquely unmistakable. Even mountains looked different when one was gazing up at them from the busy streets of a city, as opposed to regarding them across a wide-open expanse of sheep-dotted field.
Unwilling to permit her to enter the caves until he had a chance to explore them for potential animal or erosive threats, he’d bade her prop the mirror securely next to the entrance to the stone lair so he could keep close watch on the vista around her. Armed with knives and guns, he was prepared for any threat, though he truly doubted one would come this evening, or even the next.
Now, from high atop a rugged mountain, Cian stared out of the Dark Glass at two of the loveliest sights that had ever graced his existence: Scotland at a fiery dusk and Jessica St. James.
His beloved country made a worthy backdrop for the woman.
Sitting cross-legged, facing him, scarce a foot beyond his glass, her short, glossy black curls were backlit by flaming crimson and gold, her forehead and cheekbones dusted burnt rose, her lips plush red velvet. Pretty white teeth flashed when she smiled, her eyes lit with an inner fire that nigh matched the sky behind her when she laughed.
She’d been laughing often as they’d talked. She was a woman who seemed able to find something humorous in nearly all things, even her own grim lot right now, which was a warrior’s strength in Cian’s estimation. Fear accomplished nothing. Nor did regret—sweet Christ, he knew that. All the regret in the world wouldn’t change a damn thing now. Not what had been. Nor what would be.
Still, humor and tenacity could frequently see one through the most difficult of times, and she possessed both in spades.
At his urging, she’d been telling him about her trials and tribulations while trying to reclaim his mirror at the airport.
When she grew excited about one part or another, she spoke with her hands, accompanying her words with gestures, and her fingertips would brush his glass. He was so physically attuned to her that it gave him the kiss of a shiver each time, as if she were brushing her fingers against him, not a cool mirror.
For the first time in over a millennium, he got to watch the night take his Highlands—a thing he’d missed fiercely—yet he found himself savoring even more listening to Jessica’s tale, laughing at the images she painted for him. He could see this wee hellion vaulting over the counter, bashing the contrary woman, and stuffing her in a closet. There was a bit of a heathen inside Jessica St. James.
It was just one more thing he liked about the lass, he thought, smiling faintly.
He stared, drinking her in, his smile fading. She had his plaid draped around her shoulders, and was snuggled into its warmth as the sun worked its way slowly down to kiss the dark ridge of mountains filling the horizon. It did something to him, seeing her in his tartan. Though it wasn’t the Keltar weave or colors, only a bit of Scots-woven cloth he’d swiped centuries ago, heartsick for his home, he still thought of it as his. ’Twas as if she belonged in it. Crimson and black suited her well. She was a vibrant woman, fashioned by a generous creator of bold jewel tones: jade and raven and rose and skin of sun-kissed gold.