Warrior of the Highlands

Page 35

Haley wriggled her toes in the sand, welcoming the damp chill. It grew late, and she savored the cool at her back, a peculiar craving for some physical symptom of her despair. She felt sorry for herself and would wallow in those feelings. Far from peaceful or secure, Haley would have her body chilled to the bone as well.
Fiery clouds streaked low on the horizon as the sky blazed into night. The sun came at a sharp angle, warm on her cheek. She focused on it. Anything to pull herself out of her thoughts and back into her body.
She turned her face full to the setting sun, squinting against the halo of orange winking over the sea.
Red sky at night, sailor's delight. She remembered the words her mother repeated at the sight of a particularly vibrant sunset.
Red sky in morning, sailor's warning.
Something trembled through her veins, cold, making her heart feel shallow, as if it pumped something less than blood.
They were to sail tomorrow morning.
First they would set off for Islay, with Colkitto. They'd see him off. Leave at once for Ireland. It would be goodbye to Jean, and Scrymgeour, and Mary. Good-bye to Colkitto.
She had no misconceptions of what life was in the seventeenth century. She doubted she' d ever see any of them again.
And what of her MacColla? What of this man, fated to die on an Irish battlefield?
Fate? She wondered what that meant. Wondered if the pathof a human life was predestined, an unerring map of events etched in stone.
It couldn't be. How else to explain her presence in the past?
Her mind tried to wrap around it, to track the Mbius strip of her time travel. But every time she thought she had a grasp on it, tracing and tracking events in time, she'd get tangled in the paradoxes, simply ending up back where she started.
Did that mean she was able to alter history? It had to. Why else would she have been sent back? Or rather, how else could it be so?
Thoughts of her family flooded her mind. She didn't have to be suffering so. She could be back in Boston, sheltered and secure, surrounded by her family. She'd be safe from wars. Steeped in unthinkable luxury.
But she hadn't tried to find her way home. She'd chosen
MacColla instead.
Would she return to her family if she had the chance?
Could she even?
And yet she knew in that moment that she had to stay. To see it through. MacColla must not die. She had to stop it. The trouble was, events marched inexorably forward, and she had no idea how to pause it all. Redirect history.
Or how she'd even know once she did.
The taste of salt in her throat threatened tears.
“You look so melancholy, leannan.”
His voice startled her. The intensive preparation required for these various journeys had taken his attention all afternoon. She'd thought he'd be at it still. Directing, requesting, commanding, setting all to rights for the coming days.
“You seem a gloomy wee seabird.”
He stood over her, squinting against the setting sun. His tartan billowed against his legs in the evening breeze. The warm, direct light picked out the tiniest of details, warming the sand crusted atop his bare feet, highlighting the faint stubble on his face, picking deep shadows in the lines around his mouth, cocked in amusement.
The look he gave her drew the chill from her bones. It was hard to stay so wretched in the face of this big man, come to seek her out, with this smile just for her.
“But don't you need to get ready?” she asked.
“Aye. I do.” He plopped heavily to the ground beside her, promptly wrapping his arm around her shoulders to tuck her close. “But I find I have other needs as well.” He gave her a sly wink.
“Oh really?”
“Oh really, leannan!”
The wanting of him sparked low in her belly, but she felt the specter of Ireland heavy on her, staring at her fro m afar.
“MacColla?”
“So serious you are.” He squeezed her arm. “How can I wipe the trouble from your brow?”
“Don't go.”
“You know I must,” he said quietly.
She was unable to speak for a time, and he sat silently by her side.
“Ireland's right there,” she finally said, nodding toward the distant island. “Why don't we just sail there from here? Why do we go to Islay first?”
“You spurn my wicked intentions, asking instead after maritime matters?” MacColla laughed. “And I'd hoped you'd a question related to swordplay.” He waggled his brows, amused by his own pun.
Haley frowned. She refused to take the bait.
“'Tis too dangerous to sail from here,” he sighed. “The waters of the Sruth na Maoile are too unpredictable.”
“The… Sea of Moyle?”
“Your Gaedhealg improves every day,” MacColla said, nodding. “The only safe route to Ireland is by way of Islay. I've seen fighting men by the thousands voyage between the two, on boats made of hide and willow. They land and take the wee vessels apart again for the next man's use.”
“Well,” she said nervously, “we'll just take a real boat, right?”
“That is a real boat.” MacColla stared grimly at her for a moment and then erupted into a deep belly laugh. “The look of terror on your bonny face.” He took her chin in his cupped hand. “Stop your fretting. My father, he's a true sailor. He's got a twelve -oar birlinn that will take us safe across.”
He stared out to the sea, his arm still wrapped firm around her. “We'll leave Islay on a neap tide, when the currents are weakest. 'Twill be a leisurely journey, I dare say.” He chuckled. “Mayhap we can even catch us some fine haddie for a soup. Jean tells me you love a good skink.”
He sought her gaze, but she knew the smile she gave him wasn't in her eyes.
“I see the storm in those pretty gray eyes of yours. Don't worry, leannan, the western waters provide some of the best sailing in the world. I'm told.”
“You're told? Haven't you ever sailed them?”
“Och, lass, you fret overmuch.” The sun winked from the horizon, and he chafed his hand along Haley's back to warm her. “A small sail and oars to hold the course will be all we need. 'Tis more pleasant by far than traveling on horseback.”
“Speaking of horses.” Haley said, “isn't it too risky for Jean and your mother to be setting back up through Kintyre with Campbell on the move?”
“I trust Scrymgeour to get them safe to his home. An army of men is a slow and stubborn beast. Campbell will have his eye on one thing: the MacDonald clan castle at Dunaverty. A man would have to be both deaf and blind to be caught unawares by that many soldiers on the march.”
He gave her a squeeze. “No, leannan, they'll be fine. I've found them four sturdy ponies, and we'll pack them off with creels of grain, salt.” His voice grew quiet. “We'll leave nothing of worth for the Campbell to pillage.”
MacColla stroked her cheek, turning her face to him. “I crept off like a cat on the hunt to find you,” he told her gently. “Our time alone will be rare now. I'd savor it without more thoughts to battles and brooding. ”
“Jean said we didn't need to sneak around.”
“I don't sneak.” Grabbing her hips, he pulled Haley onto his lap. He dragged her skirts up roughly, settling her on his crossed legs. “I said I was on the hunt.” His voice was husky, as he nuzzled at her neck, up her throat, around her ear. “And I always catch what I'm after.”
Wrapping her arms around him, Haley relaxed her thighs to nestle more solidly in MacColla's lap. What he'd said was right. From here on out, they'd be lucky for a few stolen moments in the dark.
She was unable to speak from the emotion that ached in her throat. And so Haley answered with her mouth.
There was no gentle easing into their kiss. It was desperate and deep, and she opened her mouth to him with the urgency of a woman starved.
He wriggled her skirts up even more, and the wool of his plaid chafed the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.
MacColla was instantly erect, and she shuddered a sigh. She needed him so badly. Feeling him pressed hard against her was such a relief.
She pulled her mouth from his to push the tartan from his shoulder and tug at his shirt. It was tucked tightly under his plaid and thick brown belt, and MacColla reached down to guide her fingers as she unbuckled him.
She was able to tug loose his shirt, and she pulled it over his head. The sight of him took her breath away. She'd only seen him in the moonlight, but here he was, half-naked before her. The gray light of the gloaming made his massive chest and its fine dusting of black hair all the more dramatic. He seemed an epic hero, sitting there with a jaw of steel and thick knots of muscle along his arms.
“The way you look at me, leannan… ” His words were hushed, as if he were barely holding on. “I'd not known I could feel such wanting.”
He turned his attention to her clothes, taking the fabric of her dress roughly in hand. “I need you. I need to be inside you.”
She gasped. “Wait.” His desire for her was a palpable thing, as strong a pull as the waves crashing just beyond.
“Careful.” Haley moved his hands to her waist. “I'll do it,” she whispered, her voice tremulous.
Haley reached both hands behind her to unlace the back of her gown. Her chest arched toward him and MacColla groaned. Leaning down, he put a hand to one breast and brought his mouth to the other, sucking and nibbling her through the thick fabric.
“Get this off,” he growled.
She stretched and squirmed, finally loosening her top enough for him to pull gown and chemise over her head in one sweep.
She sat naked atop him, separated only by the layers of wool still loose over his lap. Though the sun and the last of its warmth had slipped below the horizon, her skin felt hot, flushed, as though the blood coursed just beneath its surface.
“So lovely you are, leannan.” His breath came shallow as he raked his gaze down her body and up again. “I'll still not understand what it is I did to win such beauty for my own.”