Kiss of the Highlander

It was to the goldsmith they were going first, so Drustan could check on the intricate gold leaf with which the talented craftsman was embellishing one of Silvan’s treasured tomes.

As they entered the outskirts of the village, Drustan observed Gwen as dispassionately as possible, which was difficult with her squarely between his thighs. He’d dreaded placing her upon his horse, but there’d simply been no other alternative. It was clear the lass had never sat a horse before.

Schooling his lustful thoughts, he studied her. She craned her neck this way and that, drinking in the sights.

They rode past the tanner’s and butcher’s stalls, whose shops were at the perimeter of the city, where the odor from the dung used to soften the hides might more readily dissipate and the drippings from freshly butchered meat could be safely drained. On avenues further in were the sweltering ovens of the blacksmiths, set apart from the gentler merchants so the din of metal against metal would not interfere with quiet business.

The houses and shops, constructed of stone with thatched roofs and broad shuttered faces, opened to the street. The main thoroughfare housed the chandlers, clothiers, weavers, shoemakers, and such. The top shutters, which opened horizontally, were raised and propped up with poles to form an awning, while the bottom shutter lowered, and wares were laid out in enticing displays. The village had its own council that strictly enforced codes set by the Keltar, whereby they regulated trade, sanitation, and other matters of craftsmanship.

She was curious as if she’d not seen such a city before, Drustan thought, as she tried to peer in every direction at once. The moment they’d entered the town, she began firing questions. The smiths, hammering red-hot steel, sparks flying, fascinated her. She gawked at a young apprentice making wire by drawing hot metal through a template hole with pincers.

The butcher made her queasy, and she refused his offer of a strip of salted venison. As they passed the tanner, she saw steam rising from several shallow vats and bid him pause so she could watch the merchant shave a skin with a two-handled currier’s knife.

His eyes narrowed. She was the most convincing little actress he’d ever encountered. Her madness seemed a sporadic thing, manifesting itself infrequently, albeit spectacularly. So long as she wasn’t talking of being from the future or making wild claims about him, she seemed merely unusual, not crazed.

When she leaned back and pressed a hand against his leather-clad thigh, every muscle in his body contracted and his leg went rigid beneath her palm. He closed his eyes, telling himself it was but a hand, an appendage, absolutely nothing to drive him to senseless arousal, but lust had been thundering through his veins since he’d placed her on the horse. The warmth of her wee, generously curved body between his thighs had kept him in a permanent state of arousal. When she was near, his mind slackened, his body stiffened, and he became useless but for one thing.

Bed play.

He’d like to wrap his fists in the fabric of her gown and rip it down the front, baring all those rosy curves for his pleasure. She made him feel primitive as his ancient ancestors who’d taken women as barbarically and unapologetically as they’d conquered kingdoms. For a brief moment he was flooded with the strange idea that he had every right to take her to his bed.

He’d bet she’d not protest o’ermuch either, he thought darkly. If at all.

“Did he make your…er, trews?” She gestured toward the tanner.

“Aye,” he said roughly, pushing her hand away.

“Forgive me for touching your glorious personage,” she said stiffly. “I just wondered if your trews were as soft as they looked.”

He bit his lip to prevent a smile. Glorious personage, indeed. Where did she come up with her words? My trews may be soft, lass, he thought, but what’s in them isn’t. Had her hand crept a bit higher, she would have found that out for herself.

“Might I get a pair?”

“Of leather trews?” he said indignantly.

She turned her head to look at him, and it put her lips a breath from his. His heart beat erratically and he went motionless so he might not do something abjectly stupid, like taste those luscious lying lips.

“They look comfortable, Drustan,” she said. “I’m not used to wearing dresses.”

His gaze seemed to have gotten stuck on her lips, and he scarce heard her reply. Such lips as only a witch would have—hot and succulent, moist and utterly kissable. Slightly parted, revealing straight white teeth and the tip of a pink tongue. For a moment, he watched her lips moving but couldn’t hear a word she said. It took a vicious shake of his head to make her voice fade back in.