Chapter Fifteen #2
“Because you did see the lights and the lady. I believe you. They say fairy whisky only affects those with fairy blood in their veins. So you have the wildness of the Fey in your blood. Otherwise, you would think it just a very good whisky.”
“These are all just legends,” she said quickly, shrugging.
“How can we say for sure what is truth and what is legend?” he asked softly. “What if your reaction to the whisky proves the claim? You knew nothing of the legend, yet you saw something extraordinary. They do say the fairies choose who sees them and who does not. They chose you, lass,” he murmured.
“Perhaps there is another reason they chose me,” she whispered, glancing down. “Well, no matter. Your excellent whisky has worn off. If I drink it again will the lady return? I would so love to see her again.”
“Why?” He smiled, touched by her earnestness and her interest.
“I want to make a drawing of her.”
“You will have to draw her from memory. Even if you drank your fill she might not return. She allowed you to see her, but the Fey are a fickle lot.”
“But you have seen the same lady before?”
“When I was a boy, aye. Or I thought I did.”
“Where do the fairy ilk live in Glen Kinloch? Is there a place we could find?”
“They are everywhere,” he said, straightening. He reached out his hand to her, and she stood. He drew her toward him as he spoke and she moved gently closer. “It is said they dwell peacefully here, but we cannot seek them out. They choose the when and the where of it.”
“Perhaps I came to the right glen after all.”
“Why do you say that? Was it fairies that drew you here, or teaching?” Or this, he nearly said, as he pulled her toward him.
The keen awareness that they were alone attuned him further to the desire he felt, and the bond that he sensed growing between them.
The impulsive kisses earlier had taken him by storm, and his body pulsed easily and naturally when he was near her.
She was damnably distracting and he wanted to be close to her for more than physical reasons.
He was growing certain that his feelings for her were real and worthy, and would not easily be dismissed. It puzzled and drew him.
“Tell me about the fairy woman.” She rested a hand on his arm. “Does she help you make the fairy brew?”
“Fiona.” Setting his hands around her waist, he drew her even closer. She did not resist. “I do not want to talk about fairies.”
“But I want to know. I need to know.”
“I wonder,” he murmured, touching her cheek lightly, “why you are so keen on the fairies of Glen Kinloch.”
“I cannot say, not yet. I am sorry.” She pulled back. “We both have secrets.”
“We should talk of this later. You ought to go upstairs to rest.”
“My head is still spinning a bit, I admit.”
He turned to pick up a candle in its brass holder, then waved her ahead of him to the door, then began to lead her up the turning stone steps.
“I will go first,” he said. “The way is steep and dark.”
At the upper landing, she reached for the door latch and glanced up at him. Dougal hesitated. A cool, mere good night would abandon the promise of what was happening between them. Perhaps that was best.
One more kiss, he thought, one more moment to hold her. Morning and his kinfolk would arrive all too fast. They would not have this chance to be close, alone, honest.
But they were unchaperoned, and already he should take the full blame for it. Already he knew he ought to offer marriage for the situation she was in at his home. She and her Lowland family would surely expect it. Marriage.
Suddenly the state he had resisted for so long—the yoke of marriage—did not seem such an ill fit.
Here she was, standing so close, alone with him in his very house, in front of a bedchamber, wearing his very dressing gown.
Here she was, a girl he could love, a girl special enough to sip the fairy brew and see the fairy of the whisky—he liked the name she gave it—and she had come into his arms willingly and sweetly.
And he had already confided secrets to her that he would never have shared with another.
Trusting her felt good. Right. Marriage. The word had a soft insistence. Even his uncles had suggested it not long ago. He tilted his head, watching her.
“Good night,” she whispered, pressing the door handle.
“Fiona,” he murmured. He set the candle in a niche in the wall. “Wait.”
“Aye?” She turned, and in that instant, she moved, he moved, opened his arms. She went into his embrace silently, smoothly, looked up.
He touched his lips to hers, and she complied, gave back.
Sweet as honey, hot as the burn of whisky, a new kiss, another, blending together in a chain of kisses, tentative, then deeper.
She opened her lips beneath his, curved her body snug to his.
He cradled her head in his hand, fingers sliding through her silken hair, tumbling loose its curling softness.
“Fiona,” he said, “this is madness—”
“It is magic,” she murmured, touching her lips to his again.
“It is the whisky,” he answered, drawing back, “and I will not—”
“It is not all the whisky,” she whispered, sliding closer, the brocade robe slipping open, her body in a plain lawn shirt—his own—pressed intimately against him, warmth through fabric.
“More than you know, lass,” he said firmly. Though he knew he should let go, he pulled her closer, kissed her deeply. His hand skimmed down to her waist, to her hip. Sighing, he straightened, then released her.
“Into your room, now,” he said quietly.
“If you think I am fou, I am not. Not any longer.” She touched his shoulder. “Would you stay with me?”
“If you were sober, you would not ask that. Go on, now. Later for it, when we both are clear, and in agreement. Then we shall see, and we shall discuss what obligation the laird owes the lady.”
“Obligation?”
“Hush. Enough for now. It is rest you need, and no more talk.” He brushed his knuckle over her cheek, and kissed her again, could not help it, lips dragging hungrily over hers, his body pounding in its need for satisfaction. Mustering his will, he pushed her gently away. “Go, my girl.”
Opening the door, she stepped backward over the threshold, watching him. “What if I see fairies again tonight, when I am all alone?”
“That may happen, for the whisky is still upon you. I thought you wanted to see them.”
“Not alone, in the dark.”
“Then go to sleep quick as you can,” he suggested.
“Tell me more about the fairies of Kinloch.”
“A fairy story before sleeping?” He quirked a brow, amused.
“It is important that I know. I wish I could explain. Later.” She put a hand to her head. “I am dizzy. So tired.”
“Go on, now, and good night.”
“But I do not—oh!” She looked past him. “Oh!”
“What is it?”
“The wee colored lights, just there, on the stair behind you.”
He turned and saw them, the ones who flitted in that form.
Sometimes they appeared at dawn or dusk, other times when something of significance was about to happen.
Why were they here again, so often lately?
He shook his head to clear his vision. They did not vanish. He turned back. “They mean no harm.”
“You do see them! I thought you did, earlier tonight. Are they the fairy ilk?”
“So my father used to say. I have seen the lights many times. There, now, I have told you another secret of mine.”
“You have many secrets.” She stood very still, watching him.
“As do you. When the wee lights appear, they only mean to protect us.”
“From what, here in this place?”
“You, from the laird. Or perhaps the laird, from you,” he mused.
She smiled, radiant, the smile he craved to see, impish and lovely. He savored it, returned it. “Are you and I the only ones who see them?”
“My father saw them. You have a fine bit of fairy blood, to see the lights of Kinloch. That long-ago fairy of that bejeweled cup—she has blessed you, lass.”
“I wonder,” she said slowly, “if something special happens between us whenever we are together, since we can both see this phenomenon.”
“You are a scientific and practical thinker, my girl, even with something magical. And I think you could be right.” His heart, his breath, quickened.
“Kinloch,” she said, holding out her hand. “I do not want to be alone tonight.”
He watched her for a moment. Then he took her fingers in his.
*
The room was small and cozy, with the humble elegance that permeated the house.
A four-poster bed filled the space, carved wooden posts, dark green curtains, a mattress draped with a pale coverlet.
Near a window stood a small table and two stiff carved chairs on a patterned rug thin with age, and nearby, a large chest bound with leather straps.
Fiona turned, seeing that Dougal leaned against the door as if he was not certain he should enter.
He held the candle and watched her. Shadows and light sculpted the planes of his face, highlighting the green eyes, the strong jaw, the sensuous lips that had met hers so sweetly.
Her heart thudded, and she felt shy. Yet she had invited this boldly.
He had not forced it on her; indeed he seemed wary.
She felt as if a sort of spell had been cast over her, for the decision was made in her mind, and did not trouble her. Instead, it seemed the open path, the way she must go, wanted to go.
“You are safe here,” he said then. “I want you to know that.”
“I know.”
“Well, then. Good night, lass.” He set the candle on a table and stepped back.
“Dougal,” she said. “Do not send me away from the glen. I want to be here. I want to be with you.”
He began to answer—then crossed to her in two long strides, took her face in his hands, touched his mouth to hers.
The kiss was tender and fierce all at once; she felt her knees weaken, moaned, grasped hold of his shoulders as his lips caressed hers.
He turned to bring her to the bed, sitting with her on its edge, the mattress sinking gently beneath them.