The Immortal Highlander

And life just sucked.

Adam fisted a hand around the panties in the pocket of his coat and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, as if from such a distance he might somehow catch the scent of Gabrielle.

No such luck; nothing but a crisp Highland wind rushing by as he pounded across the field on the back of a snorting black stallion. And though the breeze was sweet, it was far from the sensual perfume of Gabrielle’s private heat.

Those silky pink panties were one of several things he’d not been willing to leave behind in the hotel room. He’d only removed them from his pocket and tucked them in his bag because he’d planned on getting naked with his Sidhe-seer, and he’d not wanted to have to explain why he had a pair of her panties on his person, had she discovered them. He wasn’t certain that was a thing a woman could appreciate.

Ah, but a man did. The soft, sweet, sultry scent of a woman caught on a silky bit of fabric that slipped so intimately between her legs, rubbing against that luscious mound, carrying that unique fragrance a woman only had there. A man couldn’t breathe of such a scent behind a woman’s ear or in the soft hollow of her throat, in her hair or in the small of her back.

Only if he was her lover did a man get to know that scent.

He’d known it since the night he’d pilfered her panties, and he’d been so damn close to it a few nights past. He was dying of impatience, about to explode if he didn’t get to bury his face in it soon.

Not the panties. The real thing. Between her thighs, his face, his tongue, not just inhaling, but tasting. Feeling her writhe beneath him in ecstasy, feeling her come against his mouth. Lapping with his tongue, bringing her to peak again and again. Showing her all the pleasure he could give her, binding her to him in the most ancient and sure way a man could.

Unfortunately, other things had demanded his attention.

Not only had Gwen and Chloe hammered him with all manner of questions (many of which he couldn’t find the words in their language to answer anyway, and some of which he’d refused to answer because such knowledge was still too far in mankind’s future) but Dageus and Drustan had waited patiently until the wee hours for their wives to wind down and depart, then begun with questions of their own. He’d filled them in on all that had transpired, from the High Council decreeing Dageus be subjected to trial by blood, to his current straits.

Then, all-too-humanly tired, frustrated that Gabrielle was sleeping somewhere in the sprawling castle without him—they’d not been apart more than a few necessary minutes in days—he’d rather gracelessly imparted what he’d come for, and the twins had been less than thrilled.

You want us to bring down the walls between Man and Faery? Drustan had roared. Are you blethering mad?

Not that we aren’t grateful for all you’ve done for us, Dageus had hastened to say, but you just told us your queen nigh destroyed our entire clan because I broke an oath, now you’re asking us to do it again?

Hence, after a deep, dreamless sleep of a mere few hours (no matter that he was human in body, his Tuatha Dé mind still didn’t dream), he still wasn’t with his Sidhe-seer but out riding with the Keltar twins, as he had been all morning, pounding across the lush terrain, rehashing over and over again that he wasn’t really asking them to break their oaths, he was only asking them to . . . delay fulfilling them.

Until the last possible minute.

Assuring them it would never go that far.

Realizing that were they to refuse him for any reason, he would simply sift stealthily up behind them and incapacitate them (and their descendant Christopher, who was also a Druid) if he had to, until Lughnassadh had passed. Because, by Danu, he would stop Darroc and he would preserve Aoibheal’s reign and he would regain his power and he would see to Gabrielle’s safety for the rest of forever.

In her defense—and all people were entitled to one, no matter how reprehensible their actions; that was one of the first things a person learned in law school—Gabby didn’t plan to do it. There was no malice aforethought. Wanton and willful disregard? She might plead to that. But not to premeditation.

She was a good person. Really. Probably as much as ninety-four percent of the time.

Surely she could be forgiven for the other six percent?

It wasn’t as if she’d left her room looking for the opportunity to malign anyone or indulge in a bit of character assassination.

But the opportunity presented itself (as wily opportunities to damn oneself frequently do), and she was hungover, and for the first time in more days than she cared to count, Adam hadn’t been waiting with coffee for her the moment she’d opened her eyes. No, Adam had been God-only-knew-where, with God-only-knew-what-harem in simpering, adoring attendance. And she was grumpy, caffeine-deprived, and lost in the winding corridors of the castle.