Kiss of the Highlander

“Would you like to stop in the village?”

“Nay,” he replied tersely. He pried his fingers from the edge of the seat and pointed to a road north of the village. “You must guide this metal beast to the crest of that ben.”

Gwen eyed the mountain to which he pointed. There were two hundred seventy-seven mountains in Scotland, so said her brochure, that exceeded three thousand feet, and he was pointing to one of them. Sighing, she circled the village, downshifting when she reached the mountain. She’d been hoping to coax him to have dinner and secure a reprieve before confronting the extent of his delusions.

“Tell me about your home,” she urged. The day had been a trial for both of them, and she felt a sudden spear of concern. She was about to take him “home,” and what if there wasn’t one there? What if the next few hours critically stressed his already damaged mind? She was supposed to stay with him until tomorrow night to see his proof, although technically she’d fulfilled her end of the bargain: She’d gotten him safely to Ban Drochaid. She had a feeling technically didn’t mean much to a man of his ilk.

“Doona think you’ll be leaving me now,” he said, placing his hand over hers on the gear stick.

Gwen glanced sharply at him. “What are you? A mind reader?”

He half-smiled. “Nay. I’m merely reminding you that your bargain with me was that you would stay to see my proof. I will not let you fail me now.”

“What are you going to do, chain me again?” she said dryly.

When he didn’t answer, she took another look at him. God above, but the man looked dangerous. His silver-metal eyes were cool and frighteningly calm and—yes, he would chain her again. For a split second, in the eerie, bruised half light of gloaming, he looked as if he had truly stepped forward five centuries, a barbaric warrior intent on his quest, and nothing or no one would get in his way.

“I have no intention of reneging,” she said stiffly.

“I assume reneging means to act with dishonor?” he said flatly. “Good, for I would not permit it.”

They drove in silence for a time.

“Do you enjoy a bard’s rhymes, Gwen?”

She glanced sharply at him. “I have been accused of enjoying poetry from time to time.” Romantic poetry, the kind never read at Chez Cassidy when I was a child.

“Would you grant me a boon?”

“Sure, why not,” she said with a sigh a martyr would envy. “I’ve already done fifty gazillion, what could one more possibly hurt?”

He gave her a faint smile, then spoke quietly and clearly: “Wither thou goest, there goest I, two flames sparked from but one ember; both forward and backward doth time fly, wither thou art, remember.”

She shrugged, confused. It had started out rather romantic, but hadn’t ended that way. “What does it mean?”

“Have you a good memory, Gwen Cassidy?” he evaded.

“Of course I do.” Oh, God, he was losing it.

“Re-say it to me.”

She looked at him. His face was pale, his hands fisted in his lap. His expression was deadly serious. For no other reason than to appease him, she made him repeat it, then repeated it without error. “Is there a point to this?” she asked when she’d said it three times, perfectly. It was permanently etched in her mind.

“It made me happy. Thank you.”

“That seems to have become my purpose in life,” she said dryly. “Is this another one of those things that will become clear to me in time?”

“If all goes well, nay,” he replied, and something in his voice made a shiver kiss her spine. “Pray you need never understand.”

She changed the subject uneasily, and for the duration of the ride they spoke of innocuous things while her tension mounted. He described his castle lovingly, first the grounds, then the interior and some of the recent renovations. She spoke of her mindless job but said little else of significance. Gwen had been conditioned not to overdisclose: The more a man knew about her, the less he ended up liking her, and for reasons she couldn’t explain to herself, she wanted Drustan MacKeltar to like her. It seemed they were both suddenly eager to fill the silence or it would swallow them alive.

By the time they reached the top of the mountain, Gwen’s hands were trembling on the steering wheel, but when he lifted a hand to rake his hair from his face she saw that his were too. She didn’t miss the significance of the fact: He was not playing with her. He genuinely hoped to find his castle at the top of this mountain. Firmly grounded in his delusion, he also feared that it might no longer stand. Sneaking cautious peeks at him, she grudgingly conceded that he was not suffering amnesia or playing some strange game. He believed he was what he claimed he was. The realization was far from reassuring. A physical injury would heal, a mental aberration was much more difficult to cure.