There he’d been, lying on his back, staring up at the stars, wondering where in the hell Circenn might have hied himself off to for so long, when suddenly he’d suffered a prickly sensation, as if he were the focus of an intense gaze.
He’d glanced over, half-expecting to see a few of his brethren laughing at him. In fact, he’d hoped to see his brethren. Laughing or not. In the past ninety-seven days he’d searched high and low for one of his race, but hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of a Tuatha Dé. He’d finally concluded that the queen must have forbidden them to spy upon him, for he could find no other explanation for their absence. He knew full well there were those of his race that would savor the sight of his suffering.
He’d seen—not his brethren—but a woman. A human woman, illumed by that which his kind didn’t possess, lit from within by the soft golden glow of her immortal soul.
A young, lushly sensual woman at that, with the look of the Irish about her. Long silvery-blond hair twisted up in a clip, loose shorter strands spiking about a delicate heart-shaped face. Huge eyes uptilted at the outer corners, a pointed chin, a full lush mouth. A flash of fire in her catlike green-gold gaze, proof of that passionate Gaelic temper that always turned him on. Full round breasts, shapely legs, luscious ass.
He’d gone instantly, painfully, hard as a rock.
And for a few critical moments, his brain hadn’t functioned at all. All the rest of him had. Stupendously well, in fact. Just not his brain.
Cursed by the féth fiada, he’d been celibate for three long, hellish months now. And his own hand didn’t count.
Lying there, imagining all the things he would do to her if only he could, he’d completely failed to process that she was not only standing there looking in his general direction, but his first instinct had been right: He was the focus of an intense gaze. She was looking directly at him.
Seeing him.
By the time he’d managed to find his feet, to even remember that he had feet, she’d been in her car.
She’d escaped him.
But not for long, he thought, eyes narrowing. He would find her.
She’d seen him. He had no idea how or why she’d been able to, but frankly he didn’t much care. She had, and now she was going to be his ticket back to Paradise.
And, he thought, lips curving in a wicked erotic grin, he was willing to bet she’d be able to feel him too. Logic dictated that if she was immune to one aspect of the féth fiada, she would be immune to them all.
For the first time since the queen had made him human, he threw back his head and laughed. The rich dark sound rolled—despite the human mouth shaping it—not entirely human, echoing in the empty street.
He turned and eyed the building behind him speculatively. He knew a great deal about humans from having walked among them for so many millennia, and he’d learned even more about them in the past few months. They were creatures of habit; like plodding little Highland sheep, they dutifully trod the same hoof-beaten paths, returning to the same pastures day after day.
Undoubtedly, there was a reason she’d come to this building this evening.
And undoubtedly, there was something in that building that would lead him to her.
The luscious little Irish was going to be his savior.
She would help him find Circenn and communicate his plight. Circenn would sift dimensions and return him to the Fae Isle of Morar, where the queen held her court. And Adam would persuade her that enough was enough already.
He knew Aoibheal wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye and deny him. He merely had to get to her, see her, touch her, remind her how much she favored him and why.
Ah, yes, now that he’d found someone who could see him, he’d be his glorious immortal self again in no time at all.
In the meantime, pending Circenn’s return, he now had much with which to entertain himself. He was no longer in quite the same rush to be made immortal again. Not just yet. Not now that he suddenly had the opportunity to experience sex in human form. Fae glamour wasn’t nearly as sensitive as the body he currently inhabited, and—sensual to the core—he’d been doubly pissed off at Aoibheal for making him unable to explore its erotic capabilities. She could be such a bitch sometimes.
If a simple hard-on in human form could reduce him to a primitive state, what would burying himself inside a woman do? What would it feel like to come inside her?
There was no doubt in his mind that he would soon find out.
Never had the mortal woman lived and breathed who could say no to a bit of fairy tail.
Don’t miss
the previous Highlander adventures …
karen marie
moning’s
Beyond the highland mist
to tame a highland warrior
the highlander’s touch
kiss of the highlander
and
the dark highlander
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Beyond the highland mist
Adrienne sighed, shook her head, and ordered her muscles to relax. She had nearly succeeded, when overhead a floorboard creaked. Tension reclaimed her instantly. She dropped Moonie on a stuffed chair and eyed the ceiling intently as the creaking sound repeated.
Perhaps it was just the house settling.
She really had to get over this skittishness.
How much time had to pass until she stopped being afraid that she would turn around and see Eberhard standing there with his faintly mocking smile and gleaming gun?
Eberhard was dead. She was safe, she knew she was.
So why did she feel so horridly vulnerable? For the past few days she’d had the suffocating sensation that someone was spying on her. No matter how hard she tried to reassure herself that anyone who might wish her harm was either dead—or didn’t know she was alive—she was still consumed by a morbid unease. Every instinct she possessed warned her that something was wrong—or about to go terribly wrong. Having grown up in the City of Spooks—the sultry, superstitious, magical New Orleans—Adrienne had learned to listen to her instincts. They were almost always right on target.
Her instincts had even been right about Eberhard. She’d had a bad feeling about him from the beginning, but she’d convinced herself it was her own insecurity. Eberhard was the catch of New Orleans; naturally, a woman might feel a little unsettled by such a man.
Only much later did she understand that she’d been lonely for so long, and had wanted the fairy tale so badly, she’d tried to force reality to reflect her desires, instead of the other way around. She’d told herself so many white lies before finally facing the truth that Eberhard wasn’t the man she’d thought he was. She’d been such a fool.
Adrienne breathed deeply of the spring air that breezed gently in the window behind her, then flinched and spun abruptly. She eyed the fluttering drapes warily. Hadn’t she closed that window? She was sure of it. She’d closed all of them just before closing the French doors. Adrienne edged cautiously to the window, shut it quickly, and locked it.
It was nerves, nothing more. No face peered in the window at her, no dogs barked, no alarms sounded. What was the use of taking so many precautions if she couldn’t relax? There couldn’t possibly be anyone out there.
She forced herself to turn away from the window. As she padded across the room, her foot encountered a small object and sent it skidding across the faded Oushak rug, where it clunked to a rest against the wall.
Adrienne glanced at it and flinched. It was a piece from Eberhard’s chess set, the one she’d swiped from his house in New Orleans the night she’d fled. She’d forgotten all about it after she’d moved in. She’d tossed it in a box—one of those piled in the corner that she’d never gotten around to unpacking. Perhaps Moonie had dragged the pieces out, she mused; there were several of them scattered across the rug.
She retrieved the piece she’d kicked and rolled it gingerly between her fingers. Waves of emotion flooded her: a sea
of shame and anger and humiliation, capped with a relentless fear that she still wasn’t safe.
A draft of air kissed the back of her neck and she stiffened, clutching the chess piece so tightly that the crown of the black queen dug cruelly into her palm. Logic insisted that the windows behind her were shut—she knew they were—still, instinct told her otherwise.
The rational Adrienne knew there was no one in her library but herself and a lightly snoring kitten. The irrational Adrienne teetered on the brink of terror.
Laughing nervously, she berated herself for being so jumpy, then cursed Eberhard for making her this way. She would not succumb to paranoia.
Dropping to her knees without sparing a backward glance, she scooped the scattered chess pieces into a pile. She didn’t really like to touch them. A woman couldn’t spend her childhood in New Orleans—much of it at the feet of a Creole storyteller who’d lived behind the orphanage—without becoming a bit superstitious. The set was ancient, an original Viking set; an old legend claimed it was cursed, and Adrienne’s life had been cursed enough. The only reason she’d pilfered the set was in case she needed quick cash. Carved of walrus ivory and ebony, it would command an exorbitant price from a collector. Besides, hadn’t she earned it, after all he’d put her through?
Adrienne muttered a colorful invective about beautiful men. It wasn’t morally acceptable that someone as evil as Eberhard had been so nice to look at. Poetic justice demanded otherwise—shouldn’t people’s faces reflect their hearts? If Eberhard had been as ugly on the outside as she’d belatedly discovered he was on the inside, she never would have ended up at the wrong end of a gun. Of course, Adrienne had learned the hard way that any end of a gun was the wrong end.
Eberhard Darrow Garrett was a beautiful, womanizing, deceitful man—and he’d ruined her life. Clutching the black queen tightly, she made herself a firm promise. “I will never go out with a beautiful man again, so long as I live and breathe. I hate beautiful men. Hate them!”
Outside the French doors at 93 Coattail Lane, a man who lacked substance, a creature manmade devices could neither detect nor contain, heard her words and smiled. His choice was made with swift certainty—Adrienne de Simone was definitely the woman he’d been searching for.
to tame a highland warrior
It wasn’t easy for Jillian to hide in her chambers all day. She wasn’t the cowering sort. Nor, however, was she the foolish sort, and she knew she must have a plan before she subjected herself to the perils of her parents’ nefarious scheme. As afternoon faded into evening and she’d yet to be struck by inspiration, she discovered she was feeling quite irritable. She hated being cooped up in her chambers. She wanted to play the virginal, she wanted to kick the first person she saw, she wanted to visit Zeke, she wanted to eat. She’d thought someone would appear by lunchtime, she’d been certain loyal Kaley would come check on her if she didn’t arrive at dinner, but the maids didn’t even appear to clean her chambers or light the fire. As the solitary hours passed, Jillian’s ire increased. The angrier she became, the less objectively she considered her plight, ultimately concluding she would simply ignore the three men and go about her life as if nothing were amiss.
Food was her priority now. Shivering in the chilly evening air, she donned a light but voluminous cloak and pulled the hood snug around her face. Perhaps if she met up with one of the oversized brutes, the combination of darkness and concealing attire would grant her anonymity. It probably wouldn’t fool Grimm, but the other two hadn’t seen her with clothes on yet.
Jillian closed the door quietly and slipped into the hallway. She opted for the servants’ staircase and carefully picked her way down the dimly lit, winding steps. Caithness was huge, but Jillian had played in every nook and cranny and knew the castle well; nine doors down and to the left was the kitchen, just past the buttery. She peered down the long corridor. Lit by flickering oil lamps, it was deserted, the castle silent. Where was everyone?
As she moved forward, a voice floated out of the darkness behind her. “Pardon, lass, but could you tell me where I might find the buttery? We’ve run short of whisky and there’s not a maid about.”
Jillian froze in mid-step, momentarily robbed of speech. How could all the maids disappear and that man appear the very instant she decided to sneak from her chambers?
“I asked you to leave, Grimm Roderick. What are you still doing here?” she said coolly.
“Is that you, Jillian?” He stepped closer, peering through the shadows.
“Have so many other women at Caithness demanded you depart that you’re suffering confusion about my identity?” she asked sweetly, plunging her shaking hands into the folds of her cloak.
“I didn’t recognize you beneath your hood until I heard you speak, and as to the women, you know how the women around here felt about me. I assume nothing has changed.”
Jillian almost choked. He was as arrogant as he’d always been. She pushed her hood back irritably. The women had fallen all over him when he’d fostered here, lured by his dark, dangerous looks, muscled body, and absolute indifference. Maids had thrown themselves at his feet, visiting ladies had offered him jewels and lodgings. It had been revolting to watch. “Well, you are older,” she parried weakly. “And you know as a man gets older his good looks can suffer.”
Grimm’s mouth turned faintly upward as he stepped forward into the flickering light thrown off by a wall torch. Tiny lines at the corners of his eyes were whiter than his Highland-tanned face. If anything, it made him more beautiful.
“You are older too.” He studied her through narrowed eyes.
“It’s not nice to chide a woman about her age. I am not an old maid.”
“I didn’t say you were,” he said mildly. “The years have made you a lovely woman.”
“And?” Jillian demanded.
“And what?”
“Well, go ahead. Don’t leave me hanging, waiting for the nasty thing you’re going to say. Just say it and get it over with.”
“What nasty thing?”
“Grimm Roderick, you have never said a single nice thing to me in all my life. So don’t start faking it now.”
Grimm’s mouth twisted up at one corner, and Jillian realized that he still hated to smile. He fought it, begrudged it, and rarely did one ever break the confines of his eternal self-control. Such a waste, for he was even more handsome when he smiled, if that was possible.
He moved closer.
“Stop right there!”
Grimm ignored her command, continuing his approach.
“I said stop.”
“Or you’ll do what, Jillian?” His voice was smooth and amused. He cocked his head at a lazy angle and folded his arms across his chest.
“Why, I’ll …” She belatedly acknowledged there wasn’t much of anything she could do to prevent him from going anywhere he wished to go, in any manner he wished to go there. He was twice her size, and she’d never be his physical match. The only weapon she’d ever had against him was her sharp tongue, honed to a razor edge by years of defensive practice on this man.
He shrugged his shoulders impatiently. “Tell me, lass, what will you do?”
the highlander’s touch
Lisa awoke abruptly, uncertain of where she was or what had awakened her. Then she heard men’s voices in the hallway outside the office.
Galvanized into action, Lisa leaped to her feet and shot a panicked glance at her watch. It was 5:20 A.M.—she would lose her job! Instinctively she dropped to the floor and took a nasty blow to her temple on the corner of the desk in the process. Wincing, she crawled under the desk as she heard a key in the lock, followed by Steinmann’s voice: “It’s impossible to get decent help. Worthless maid didn’t even lock up. All she had to do was press the button. Even a child could do it.”
Lisa curled into a silent ball as the men entered the office.
“Here it is.” Steinmann’s spotlessly buffed shoes stopped inches from her knees.
“What amazi
ng detail. It’s beautiful.” The second voice was hushed.
“Isn’t it?” Steinmann agreed.
“Wait a minute, Steinmann. Where did you say this chest was found?”
“Beneath a crush of rock near a riverbank in Scotland.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. How did it remain untouched by the elements? Ebony is obdurate wood, but it isn’t impervious to decay. This chest is in mint condition. Has it been dated yet?”
“No, but my source in Edinburgh swore by it. Can you open it, Taylor?” Steinmann said.
There was a rustle of noise. A softly murmured “Let’s see … How do you work, you lovely little mystery?”
Lisa battled an urge to pop out from under the desk, curiosity nearly overriding her common sense and instinct for self-preservation.
There was a long pause. “Well? What is it?” Steinmann asked.
“I have no idea,” Taylor said slowly. “I’ve neither translated tales of it nor seen sketches in my research. It doesn’t look quite medieval, does it? It almost looks … why … futuristic,” he said uneasily. “Frankly, I’m baffled.”
“Perhaps you aren’t as much of an expert as you would have me believe, Taylor.”
“No one knows more about the Gaels and Picts than I do,” he replied stiffly. “But some artifacts simply aren’t mentioned in any records. I assure you, I will find the answers.”
“And you’ll have it examined?” Steinmann said.
“I’ll take it with me now—”
“No. I’ll call you when we’re ready to release it.”
There was a pause, then: “You plan to invite someone else to examine it, don’t you?” Taylor said. “You question my ability.”
“I simply need to get it cataloged, photographed, and logged into our files.”
“And logged into someone else’s collection?” Taylor said tightly.
“Put it back, Taylor.” Steinmann closed his fingers around Taylor’s wrist, lowering the flask back to the cloth. He slipped the tongs from Taylor’s hand, closed the chest, and placed the tongs beside it.