He responded like a man starved for the touch of a woman. He cupped his hands beneath her luscious bottom, sliding the fabric of her skirt away from her legs. He kissed and kissed and kissed her, clamping her head firmly between his hands, nibbling and suckling and tasting her hot, lying mouth, wondering how it could be so sweet. Shouldn’t a lying tongue taste bitter? Not like honey and cinnamon.
An image, startling in its clarity and strangeness, flashed through his mind: this woman, clad in strange garments—half a chemise and ruined trews—regarding him in a silvered glass as he struggled with a faded and dingy blue pair of trews.
He’d ne’er worn such trews in his life.
Yet his lust for her trebled at the onslaught of the image. Plunging his tongue into her mouth, he pressed his lower body against her and pulled her more tightly against his hard shaft. His wits were drugged by the scent of her, the taste of her, the raw mating heat of her.
“Milord?” a faint, startled voice said behind him.
Irritation flickered through his veins that someone dared interrupt. By Amergin, it was his choice if he chose to hang himself! This woman had placed herself in his castle, in his arms. He wasn’t married yet!
There was the sound of a throat being cleared, then a gentle laugh.
He closed his eyes, drew upon his Druid discipline, and thrust her away, but the wee witch sucked his lower lip as she went, causing his desire to peak feverishly. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips deliciously swollen.
And he was hard as a rock.
Disgusted with himself, he pasted a smile on his face, adjusted his sporran about his waist, and turned to greet the man who’d saved him from tupping the lass in the street without a thought for his betrothed.
“Tomas,” he hailed the elderly, gray-haired goldsmith. He tugged Gwen forward by the hand and thrust her beneath the smith’s nose, watching intently for any flicker of recognition. There was none.
The smith merely beamed, his gaze darting between the two of them. “Silvan must be delighted, just delighted,” he exclaimed. “He’s been longing for grandchildren and he’s finally goin’ to get his wedding. I saw the two of ye out the window and simply had to come see for meself. Welcome, milady!”
As Tomas turned a beatific gaze on Gwen, Drustan realized the smith was laboring under the mistaken assumption that Gwen was his latest betrothed.
Drustan clamped his teeth around the introduction he’d been about to make, not about to disabuse him of the notion. The last thing he needed was more rumors circulating in the village that Anya might one day overhear. Perhaps Tomas would simply forget what he’d seen or, after meeting the true bride, wisely keep his own counsel. The less said about it the better.
“I vow, in all my life I’ve ne’er seen Drustan MacKeltar escort a lass about town. He’s of a certain ne’er stood and kissed one in the street for all to see. Och, but where are me wits? Addled by seein’ the laird in love, they be,” he said, bowing hastily. “Bidding ye welcome again, and please, do come in.”
Gwen cast Drustan an arch, heated glance that seared him to the bone, before following Tomas into the shop.
He remained outside a few moments, taking longer than necessary to secure his horse, breathing deeply of the crisp, cool air. In love, my arse, he thought darkly. I’ve been bewitched.
17
Gwen was ecstatic. He’d kissed her. Kissed her just like he’d kissed her in her century, and she’d glimpsed her Drustan in his eyes. And the smith had thought they looked to be in love!
There was hope, after all. In her century, he’d claimed he wouldn’t kiss a woman were he betrothed or wed. Well, she thought cheerily, he’d just broken that rule. Perhaps if she dug deep enough, reminded him of things they’d done in her time, he would somehow remember it all, given time. She’d save him and he’d break his engagement and marry her, she thought dreamily.
Resisting the urge to fan herself, she glanced about Tomas’s cottage. Drustan was outside fiddling with the horse, but she knew that wasn’t the only reason he’d remained outside. He had responded exactly as he had in her century, and she knew Drustan was a man of strong passion. He didn’t like to stop once he got started.
She hoped he was damn uncomfortable in those comfy-looking snug leather trews he’d refused to buy for her.
It was possible that delight colored her impression of the tiny sixteenth-century cottage, but she found it lovely. It was cozy and warm, filled with a light floral scent, probably from all those herb thingies hanging upside down in the windows, she decided. A dazzling array of exquisite silver work, plates and goblets, beautifully lettered gold paternosters and religious tableaux were scattered about on tables and shelves. An illuminated manuscript lay on a long, narrow table, surrounded by half a dozen wax candles placed at a cautious distance. There were no oil globes in the room, only candles, and when she inquired, Tomas explained that the oil caused a residue when burned that was more damaging to his manuscripts and gold work than the fine candles he purchased. Indeed, he burned only certain types of wood in his hearth, to minimize the soot. His craft was so detailed and so well-loved by the laird of the MacKeltar, he’d explained, that Silvan himself had paid to have the costly glass windows installed so that he might work by brightest daylight.