Duchess of Mine (15 page)

“What? Tell me what you were going to
say.”

He sighed, but then relented. “’Tis hard to
believe. Ye’re from another time. What’s it like?”

She scooted a little closer, turning her
folded legs toward him, holding onto a shin with her hand. “Some of
my time is so similar to yours. I mean, here, right here, reminds
me of my home, where I grew up. I—I don’t live in my hometown
anymore.”

“Ye moved away from it?”

“Yes.”

“Do ye like where ye live now?”

She thought about Ithaca, New York, how it
had a presence like a small town. It was a lush green thanks to the
constant humidity, and outside the city, waterfalls dotted the land
in sparkling rainbow colors. But because of the universities and
its obvious closeness to New York City, there was a sense of urban
to it Fleur wasn’t sure she did like. However, her small home was a
little ways from Ithaca, where trees grew inches from each other,
and a fox came and visited her every day in the spring and summer.
One year the fox brought her babies close by when Fleur had left
cheese out for the little family.

But it was Porcupine Fleur thought of. Ithaca
resembled the Highlands in appearance more than her rough and
tumble hometown, but in the sense of community and the close-knit
feeling her home radiated, so too did the Highlands.

“I like Ithaca. It’s beautiful. But I miss
Porcupine, my hometown until I was fourteen.”

“Fourteen? That’s when I wanted to leave
Durness, have some kind of tutelage. But I waited until I was
nearer seven and ten.”

Fleur thought Duncan might be impressed with
her being plucked and taken to Texas when she had been a young
teenager. But she hadn’t been impressive. She’d been depressed and
lonely. “Yes. A teacher of mine called some people, because in
school—oh, where I come from all the children have to go to school.
Anyway, in school I did really well in math and science.”

“Aye, ye like numbers, ye think in numbers. I
wish I did. That sounds intriguin’.”

She giggled. “Are you trying to be nice to
me? I’m a freak.”

“Nay.” Duncan furrowed his red brows, then
pointed a shaking finger at her. “Don’ say that about yerself. I’ll
out yell ye for sure.”

She chuckled again, but then looked down
while she shook her head.

He gave a hefty sigh then. “Ye think in
numbers, which is good in my mind. I think in...Oh, Jesus, I’m
goin’ to say it. I think in words.”

“Most people do.”

He shook his head. “Look at me. Tell me ye
don’ see a man who is part beast, too much brawn for my own good,
aye? So when people look at me, and see me with my sword that makes
sense, ye ken? But the words I think with...the words . . .”

“Tell me about the words you think with.”

He huffed for a moment, seeming to need the
extra air. But when he spoke, he sounded so calm. “Cinnamon whirls
‘round my mind. Ye hair reminds me of cinnamon. ‘Tis such a
tempting spice, it is. Smells so innocent and sweet, and ye tresses
are so dark, but in this light they glow red. Like cinnamon. If ye
eat too much, ‘tis hot in yer mouth. It sits there then invades yer
blood, makin’ ye boil inside out. But it feels so good, the heat,
the sweet, the combination.”

Granted, Fleur had been attracted to Duncan
from the very beginning. He’d stood so still after he’d dipped in
the bay, letting the water wick off his huge muscular body. She’d
loved the way his red hair had deepened, become dark curling rubies
with droplets falling from them. And she’d wanted him. She’d wanted
to pounce on him.

But right then, after he’d told her about how
he thought in poems, poems created with beautiful words and desire,
her skin sizzled, her breasts ached and the apex of her legs
flooded with need. It was almost impossible not to attack him.

With the fire and the honeyed moon as their
light and guide, he shook his head. “Anyway, ye were tellin’ me
that ye left at the tender age of fourteen?”

She nodded absentmindedly. It was difficult
to go back to conversation though. Words were difficult to come by.
Ultimately, she knew she would get a hold of herself and talk
again, but for a moment all she felt was a throbbing for him. It
came in twos. Like a heartbeat, her ache for him.

She told him of living in Texas, of learning
biology in college, graduate school, her PhD. He sat smiling at
her.

“Ye are a smart one.”

“So are you.”

He shook his head.

“Why don’t you think of stories anymore? Your
usage of words...it’s so beautiful.”

He looked down at the fire, then threw a few
more logs onto it. “My step-father, Albert, he heard me tell a tale
once at the Green Cat, where ye told yer fine tale. Ye made up a
good story with that one.”

She shook her head. “That wasn’t something I
made up. It’s an old story, maybe a few thousand years old. It’s
not at all mine.”

“Still, ye told it well.”

“And you’re once again avoiding answering
me.”

He chuckled but then lost his grin when he
started talking. “I told a tale when I was about eleven. I’d been
tellin’ ‘em for a bit by then. Gettin’ requests to keep tellin’ ‘em
too. So I made up this story of a boy who was part dragon and had
the dreaded quest to save his village, but the dragon in him wanted
to eat the village people.”

“Wow, that sounds amazing. Full of conflict.
You thought that up when you were eleven?”

He shrugged and wouldn’t look at Fleur then.
“So I’s tellin’ the story. Havin’ a good time with the crowd too,
and my step-father comes in and tells them all that I hadn’t baled
the oat stalks correctly. That I had been too lazy thinkin’ up
tales, rather than doin’ my chores.”

Fleur scooted until her legs touched
Duncan’s, her hands finding his. “I’m so sorry. How
humiliating.”

Although Duncan wouldn’t look at her, he
wrapped his thumbs around her hands, holding her to him. “Aye,
‘twas. But even more so, because I had tied the bales right. I
tried to defend myself, but Albert out yelled me, kept sayin’ I was
lazy, my head in the clouds, thinkin’ of all my stupid tales.”

Her heart bled for the boy Duncan had been,
how his step-father had mortified him into thinking his gift was
laziness. No wonder Duncan had given up.

“I’m glad Albert’s dead. I’d kick his ass if
he were still around.”

Duncan finally looked up and smiled at
her.

“Is that why you keep threatening me with the
yelling?”

“Suppose so. I don’ ken any other way to
fight, other than with my hands. I don’t think they are the right
ways, so I keep my mouth shut meanwhile.”

“And fight other people’s battles for
them.”

He shrugged.

She smiled and scooted even closer. “I’m
going to pick a fight with you right now. So you can learn how to
use your beautiful words instead of yelling or smacking me
around.”

He reached for her arms, tugging urgently.
“I’d never hit ye. Never. I swear it. And I never want to yell at
ye either.”

She had known that all along. He was a gentle
giant, which might have seemed absurd considering his current job
was training men how to kill. But she knew he’d been jesting about
out yelling her, and she knew it down to her bones he’d never do
anything to hurt her.

She patted his chest, but couldn’t quite take
her hands from him when she should have. God, he was so...hard. It
distracted her for a moment, but then she thought of helping him
learn how to fight. She hadn’t fought with anyone since her
cousins, too afraid of saying the wrong thing, so it would be fun
to pick a fight with the big guy. She might learn a trick or two
herself.

“I know you’d never hit me. I was just
teasing. Sorry. Bad joke?”

He slid his hands down until they rested on
her lap, where she held them with her fingers poking between each
of his thick digits.

With him distracted by her movement, she
tried to think of what they could fight over. “You have dreadful
weather here in MacKay country.”

He glanced up, his red brows furrowed in
confusion.

“We’re fighting now. You have to tell me it’s
not dreadful weather.”

“But it is. Been too hot. ‘Tis never like
this. Horrible weather.”

She shook her head. “No, we’re fighting. You
have to disagree with me.”

“But I don’ want to. I agree with you.”

“That’s not the point. You have to fight with
me.”

“Ah, Jesus.”

“You can’t get Him involved. We’re
fighting.”

He laughed, then straightened, and tried to
wipe the smile from his face. “All right. The weather has been
unpleasant, but ‘tis enjoyable in the evening, like now, with ye,
where ‘tis perfect with a slight chill, so we have to sit close
together to keep warm.”

She leaned her forehead against his strong
chest. “Oh, we’re pathetic at fighting.”

“Nay. We’re not,” he said sharply.

She glanced up.

He smiled widely. “I’m fighting with ye now.
Happy?”

“Being contrary isn’t fighting.”

“Aye, it is.”

“Oh, God.”

“We can’t have the Son, but the Father can be
involved in our fight? How is that fair?”

She laughed, and he did too, but she saw
something shift in his laugh. He was becoming more serious, which
she wasn’t sure she wanted. When he’d told her about his
step-father, she’d wanted to protect him from that pain, wanted to
wrap her arms around the man now and the boy back then.

But she wanted to know what was obviously
bothering him. “What? What are you thinking about?”

He suddenly became sheepish, not looking at
her. But he answered all the same. “Since I met ye,” he took a huge
breath, “I—I keep thinkin’ upon a story, one I made up a long time
ago.”

She grasped his arms before she even
considered her actions. She’d also scooted much closer to him,
practically on his lap. “That’s great! Will you tell me about
it?”

“’Tis silly.”

She growled at him. “I told you already. I
like silly, and I don’t consider storytelling silly. It elevates
the spirit, it gives one hope when all is dark, it is the reason
human beings stopped living in trees and sat around a fire. It’s
why we have communities now, all because of stories.” She stopped,
realizing what she’d just said. Well, he might not understand the
evolutionary reference, but as for the rest...she hadn’t realized
she felt so fiercely about tales, but she did. The stories told by
her elders had been so old, as they would say in the Green Cat
tavern, older than time was time. At one point she’d loved
listening to them, believing in them. It had happened so slow, or
maybe too fast, but one day she no longer thought of stories, or
tales. She no longer believed.

But with Duncan, she felt she could have hope
again. She could believe.

He took another breath, then began. “Ye might
like this story. I hope. See, we all heard the tale of the princess
Pocahontas coming from America. We’d heard the stories of cities of
gold, treasures abounding, and beautiful people.”

“Really? Beautiful people?”

“Oh, aye. I even bought the stupid book that
John Smith wrote, not believin’ much of it, but, och, how it
stirred my imagination.”

“You know, America doesn’t have the gold that
South America, Brazil, has. Well, there’s gold, but it won’t be
discovered for another...jeez, another couple hundred years.”

Duncan grunted and nodded. His form of
accepting what she’d told him. It made her laugh.

“Anyway, about Pocahontas . . .” She gestured
with her hands, finally releasing her grip from his arms. But she
had to keep touching him, so she settled her hands on his, which
happened to be on his iron-tough thighs.

“Aye, well, she visited England nearly forty
years ago. ‘Tis still much discussed, especially her death.”

“Yes, she died when she was young, right?
I’ve forgotten that part of my history.”

He sucked in a breath, as if admonishing her,
but smiled. “’Tis before my time too. Anyway, so her story is that
she was kidnapped while still living in Virginia. In captivity, she
supposedly fell in love and married a white man, even though she
was already married. Then she traipses off to London. Not there
even a year, she had a babe, then dies. Not from having the bairn.
Nay. But what she dies from, no one knows. She was eight and ten
years of age or little older. How could she die so young? So my
idea for a story is to have it durin’ that time, and to have a
Highlander, o’ course—”

“Of course.”

His smile widened. “Have a Highlander partner
up with an Indian to discover if she truly died from an ailment. Or
was it murder?”

She clutched him once again, this time
landing part of her thigh on him too. “Oh my God, Duncan, that’s
brilliant! You have to write it.”

“Help me with it?”

“’Course,” she answered the way he would, and
it made his smile turn hot, like the fire.

For the next week, they’d meet at night,
plotting Pocahontas’s murder mystery, sharing, and talking until
the early morning hours. When they’d finally depart from each
other’s company it was always reluctantly.

After Fleur had started to hold Duncan’s
hands, they’d find themselves by the end of the night with him
inclined against a fence pole, and she’d lean part of her back
against his chest. They’d both stare up at the stars.

“Have you heard of Galileo?” She’d asked
while the back of her head nestled against his strong shoulder.

“Aye. Died a decade ago or so. Seemed like a
smart man, like ye.”

“Are you calling me smart? Or a man?”

He chuckled, and not so bashfully leaned his
head over her to glance at her chest. “There is nothing manly about
ye, I can attest to that.”

Reclining back against the pole again, he was
staring at the stars when she smacked him across his other mighty
shoulder.