The Highlander's Touch

His breath fanning her ear, he said, “I came to tell you Duncan awaits you in the oriel—that is the room above the Greathall. He will give you a tour and has more to teach you before you mingle with my people. I expect you for dinner this evening—”

“We’ve not dined together before. I see no reason to start now,” she interrupted hastily.

He continued as if she’d not spoken. “And I’ve had some gowns sent to your room. I suggest you spend the early evening with Gillendria, who will arrange for a bath and dress your hair—”

“I don’t need to fuss,” she protested quickly, her eyes fixed on the wall.

“My future wife would fuss with her appearance to befit her station.”

Circenn dropped his hand from where it was suspended above her nape and clenched it so he wouldn’t give in to the temptation to caress her hair, perhaps place a finger beneath her chin, and turn her face to his. Over the past few days, knowing she lay in his bed, slept in his castle, he’d grown deeply intrigued with the thought of being handfasted to her. His desire for her had in no way responded to his efforts at discipline; rather, it seemed to be growing defiantly, in inverse proportion to his attempts to contain it. Handfasting seemed to be acquiring the elements of a nicely bent rule, to the new and decidedly not improved Circenn Brodie.

If she turned to look at him, she would clearly see his hunger for her, and he wanted her to see it; it was like a volcano inside him—hot, far from dormant, and bordering on dangerous. He wanted to see how she would react, if her eyes would widen, her pupils dilate, her lips part. He gazed at her for a moment, willing her to turn and face him, but she was stalwart in her stance.

* * *

Circenn entered his chambers, gliding soundlessly across the floor. He drew a deep breath and let himself feel the raw power surging in his veins. Why fight it now? he thought sardonically. The past four days had been hellish. Since they’d returned to his castle, he’d tried to keep himself busy training, attempting to exhaust himself physically so he might sleep at night, but to no avail. At every moment he was exquisitely conscious of the woman in his keep.

And exquisitely tempted.

He’d broken every damned rule on his list but two, and now he’d come to this chamber to bend yet another one. He’d come to scry his future.

He paused before the brightly burning fire. Perhaps, if he had peered into his future the moment she had appeared, he might have glimpsed the disasters coming and been able to avert them. Perhaps he should have broken that rule first. Or perhaps he should have practiced scrying years ago and foreseen her arrival, but he hadn’t for two reasons: He disliked using magic, and scrying was not an exact art. Sometimes he could see clearly, and at other times his visions were impossible to decipher, more confusing than helpful.

Circenn stared into the flames for a long moment, arguing with himself over such things as fate and free choice. He’d never been able to reach a solid conclusion about predestination. When Adam had first shown him the art of scrying his future days, Circenn had scoffed, arguing that to believe one could see one’s future meant that it was unchangeable, which annihilated the concept of personal control, something he couldn’t accept. Adam had merely laughed and goaded Circenn that if he refused to learn all the arts, he couldn’t expect to understand the few he did know. A bird’s eye views the entire terrain over which it flies, a mouse sees only dirt Be ye free or be ye mouse? Adam had asked, his mouth curved in that perpetually mocking smile.

Sighing, Circenn knelt by the fireplace and ran his hand beneath the crack where the hearth met the floor. A portion of the wall containing the hearth silently revolved ninety degrees, revealing a pitch-black chamber behind it. He picked up a candle and stepped into the hidden chamber. With a slight movement of his foot, he depressed the lever that spun the wall closed. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the room with no windows. It was an uncomfortable place for him, a place he sought only in his darkest hours.

He passed the small tables, toying idly with the various “gifts” the blackest elf had brought him. Some he understood, some he never wanted to understand. Adam had given them strange names: batteries, automatic rifles, lighters, tampons. Circenn had explored a few of them, and one he’d found himself drawn to many times over the centuries. Adam called it a “portable CD player.” His usual favorite was Mozart’s Requiem, but today, however, he was more in the mood for a piece called Ride of the Valkyries by Richard Wagner. Slipping the device over his ears, he thumbed the gauge to full volume and sank into a chair in the corner, staring at the candle flame. Papers crackled in his sporran and he removed them with a wry smile. He’d long ago forgotten stuffing those sheaves in the chest in his study, but he had narrowly escaped a disastrous situation by retrieving them. The last thing she needed to stumble upon was his scribbled and maudlin introspections. She would truly think him deranged.