Highlander of Mine (17 page)
F
leur came out the kitchen’s door, close to the woodpile, and flung another dark red basin of water and Duncan’s mother’s blood beside the pink wild rose bush.
“Fleur,” he whispered.
She jumped, since apparently she hadn’t seen him. He’d been sitting on the chopping block. After splitting wood through the better part of two hours, the sun had begun to just kiss the horizon. It would be a lovely warm day, and the sky streaked of violet and lavender, yet a few diamonds hung in the sky. The stubborn stars made him think of when he was a lad and his ma would ask him to make wishes not only on the first star in the night sky, but on all the stars. She had wanted to give him every single one of his wishes.
Lord, she’d tried so hard to make that true. Even marrying Albert might have been construed as his wish, because once he had wanted a father.
Fleur clutched her free hand to her heart, but when she saw him, a grin quickly glowed from her bonny visage.
“Sorry. I didn’ mean to frighten ye.”
Leaning over, she placed the basin on a large stone that guarded his mother’s onions. She straightened as she walked toward him, keeping her beam aimed at him. It made his aching heart warm and grow. He continued to sit on the tree stump, and when Fleur extended her arms wide, he took her, probably too forcefully, and sat her on his lap to hold.
With his face deep in her long free hair, he asked, “How is she?”
“Sleeping now. She’s had another dose of opium, er, laudanum.” She talked beside his ear, sleepily, sweetly, mayhap without her knowledge it also dredged in his mind and body what making love to her might be like.
He pulled away from the floral scent of her hair, trying to regain his senses. He took a deep breath, then thought of his ma. “Is it—is it bad?”
Fleur’s face fell. He knew the answer.
He nodded. “How—how long?”
Fleur’s dark brows furrowed and the crease above her nose appeared. Either she didn’t know what he was asking, or didn’t want to tell him. Hell, he didn’t want to know the answer anyway. He didn’t want to know how much longer he had with his mother. He didn’t want to know how much more she would suffer.
He tried to think of anything else to say. “Jesus, ye come here to my Highlands, because of some weird trick of time, then ye’re spirited away, and now takin’ care of my ma.”
“Yes, you do keep a girl on her toes.” She feathered away some of his unruly red curls from his ear, still a smile upon her lips.
He chuckled, but then buried his face against her hair again, needing to hold her so close he couldn’t distinguish himself from her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, embracing him just as fiercely. Again, beside his ear, she whispered, “You look tired, Duncan. You want to get some rest?”
He shook his head. “Nay. You?”
She sighed. “I am exhausted. I’m thinking of diving into your mom’s cocaine stash.”
“Hmm?”
Fleur pulled away enough to look at him. “The laudanum, the big black pills, your mom is taking is somewhat legal in my time. It’s called morphine. Of course, laudanum is broken down a bit differently from the morphine of my time. I can only guess what your mom is taking is more potent. I should have deduced she was taking it, her runny nose . . .” she sipped a breath and shook her head. “Anyway, the laudanum affects her pain receptors, making it nearly impossible to feel, well, much of anything. So it’s worth it for her to continue taking. But the coca tea, cocoa leaves, your mom was taking.” She stopped, tears forming in her huge dark eyes. “She—she said she needed to take it because I was her guest, to keep up with me. But I don’t think it’s good for her. It might have exacerbated her—”
He pulled her against him then, shushing her. “’Tisn’t yer fault, Fleur.”
“But I—”
“Shh, my Fleur. Shh. Don’t ye think it.”
“But I do. By being here, I might have made your mom sicker.”
He shook his head. “Nay, darlin’. Ye made her so happy, ye did. I—I don’ remember my ma ever that happy. The time I walked in on ye laughin’ so hard, ye both rollin’‘round on the floor with yer giggles, why, I’ve never seen her like that.”
Fleur leaned away again, a wee grin in place. “She was telling me about how you were conceived, how she and your father were making love against a—”
“I don’ want to ken that.” He made a strangled, disgusted noise. “I really don’ want to ken that.”
She smiled wider. “Right. I wouldn’t either, but it is a funny story about a tick going—”
He made a gagging noise, thankfully preventing Fleur from saying anything further.
She giggled. Slowly her laughter waned as she stared at him.
Lightning struck through him, first his heart, then it zipped from his solar plexus straight to his cock. He wasn’t sure if it was her or him, but suddenly he was kissing Fleur. Her lips tasted of chamomile tea, then she slid her tongue in his mouth, and he tasted honey too. The energy from his heart intensified. He pushed his tongue against hers, and she let out a soft mewl. He fisted his hand through her hair, amazed at the luxurious silkiness of it, the weight of all that black in his palm.
She pulled away, huffing slightly. “I just kissed you for the first time only a few hours ago.”
“Aye.”
“It seems like a lifetime ago.”
He agreed, but couldn’t find the words. So he kissed her again. And again. Nibbling down her neck, her soft floral scent invaded his blood, his brain. He stopped thinking then, and only needed. He needed her. This was more than just desire. He needed her here. But she—how long would she stay? How
could
she stay? She had said something about needing to take care of his ma. Then what?
Reaching back up to her lips, he plunged his tongue in her mouth once more.
Jesus, she would leave one day. She would.
And if she did . . .
His heart broke.
He stopped kissing her, leaving his forehead against hers, feeling her panting breath against his face. He prided himself in that. She wanted him.
But how could she ever need him?
Both he and Fleur heard a woman’s voice softly being cleared. He glanced up and saw the smiling face of Mrs. McVicar.
“Sorry to interrupt.”
Fleur stood and he did too. He had no clue how tired he was until he did so. Lord, he wasn’t sure if his legs would hold for much longer.
Mrs. McVicar came into full view, her grin still in place as she looked at the both of them. But then she took a sharp breath. “I think it best to take turns with yer ma.” She looked more at Duncan then. “I—I ken it uncustomary to have a man care for her, but being her son...She might—”
“I
want
to care for her,” Duncan said.
Mrs. McVicar nodded. “She’s properly covered now, Duncan, so ye can. Ye both need yer rest. One of ye watch her for a few hours, then the next. The last thing ye need, or Mrs. Cameron, is for both of ye to get sick, aye? So try to rest.”
It was like the noise of a cannon exploding nearby—the stark realization that Mrs. McVicar was giving directions to tend to his mother in her sickbed, as if it might soon be her deathbed. Granted, he knew she was ill. Very ill. But until that moment, he had thought she might bounce back at any second.
His throat clenched shut, and his eyes pricked like sand was lodged in them. He nodded.
Mrs. McVicar tried to muster another grin, this one, Duncan thought, was the one he’d seen his mother give when he was a lad and followed her to the sick. She’d give it when the people were gravely ill, when their loved ones needed comfort and strength.
Fleur turned to him, tears standing in her own eyes. “Why don’t you get some rest, Duncan? I’ll watch her now, then wake you in a bit.”
But the dark shadows under Fleur’s eyes made him summon the strength to stay awake for hours more. He shook his head. “Nay, my princess, ye had a rough couple days. Ye need yer sleep. I’ll take the first watch.”
“I’ll return toward the evening,” Mrs. McVicar said.
“Rory, Captain MacKay, said something about seeking a physician from Tongue.” Duncan thought it best to alert the midwife. “The doctor might be here about the same time.”
“Do ye ken if it’s the famous Dr. Robertson that’s comin’? I’ve always wanted to meet him.”
Duncan shrugged. “Sorry, I don’ ken.”
Mrs. McVicar nodded, then took another breath. “Well, make sure ye both get rest, aye? Take good care of each other. Don’t forget to eat, ye hear? Ye need yer strength.”
Both Fleur and Duncan nodded. Then Mrs. McVicar said her farewells and vanished.
Fleur turned and planted her arms around Duncan, snuggling her head against his chest. Lord, that felt so good, to have her do that. It made him feel as though he was the perfect compliment for her. They matched. He threaded his fingers through her hair.
Against his chest, she asked, “You sure about taking the first shift?”
“Aye.” He lifted her hair in his hands over and over again, surprised it was so heavy, so soft.
“Wake me up in a few hours.”
“Aye.”
She pulled away from her perfect spot, glancing up at him. “I mean it, Duncan. Wake me soon. And wake me up...for anything, all right?”
He swept down and kissed her, unable to resist those flawless pink lips. So full. So sweet. He leaned back before he let himself get carried away.
“Aye. I’ll wake ye.”
She smiled.
As they walked into the house, she unlaced herself from the rusty, dirty kirtle she wore. It was as if they’d already been intimate, shared everything with each other. And for a moment, Duncan was confused about time. He thought he glimpsed into the future and saw they were that familiar with each other, she had already been naked before him, they’d already made love. Numerous times. That they were in love. And had children. That she was his forever more, and he wouldn’t have to worry about another woman he loved leaving him. Not until he was an old man.
Fleur turned at his brothers’ chamber’s door. Her shift was in place, not revealing a thing, but her dress was loose and soon would be off. She smiled at him drowsily.
“You promise to wake me?”
He blinked and knew he was in his own time, his mother was deathly ill, and Fleur would leave him one day soon. Swallowing, he somehow found the courage to show her a smile, so she’d feel reassured enough to sleep.
“I promise,” he could only whisper, feeling his heart rip into more pieces than he thought he could recover from.
I
n her sleep Fleur rolled her beautiful face toward Duncan, smiling. He couldn’t help but grin back. She looked so relaxed, calm, at peace.
It had been six hours and was now a little in the afternoon. Helen had woken twice—once to ask for more laudanum and another time to ask for food, which Duncan thought was a good sign. However, his ma hadn’t smiled, not even as he forced his face into the position, as if he weren’t worried, weren’t scared for her life. Grinning was something his ma did all the time, even through the years with Albert. She’d grin and bear whatever the man had said to her, or to her sons. Trying so hard to either ignore the verbal punches or mayhap she had been trying to placate Albert. Duncan never knew, but all the same, she’d always had a soft smile on her face.
Now though, her complexion was gray. Nay, actually it was lavender. The light purple tone under her eyes and around her lips made Duncan all the more aware how grave the situation was. As well as the fact that his mother grimaced in her sleep. Lord, how he wished he could fight off the cancer for her. He wished it could be that easy, that he could take his sword and battle against it as if it were a human foe. How much simpler it would be if that were true. He’d risk his own life for her.
No matter what he felt about Durness, his past, his upbringing, and his feelings of residual resentment towards his mother for staying with a prick of a man for a husband, no matter all that, he’d always come to his mother’s aid if she needed him. He’d always wish it were him vanishing into cancer rather than her. She had tried so hard to give him love. Her constant forced smiles were proof of that.
However, now he had time with his mother, alone, as he’d always wished when Albert had been alive. But, Duncan felt robbed again, because Helen was dying.
Fleur whispered something in a different language then giggled. Her long black lashes fluttered open. He worried that he appeared like an arse, standing beside the wide bed she lay on, staring at her.
“I—I shouldn’—”
She reached out for him, making him stop his words. He gently pressed his hand against hers, not sure if she were truly awake. Lacing her fingers betwixt his, she gently tugged him down until he sat close to her.
“How long did you let me sleep?” Her voice was thoroughly melodious and a tad dreamy. It sent an instant shock to his stomach, his cock, making him think too much of her lying there, and what it might be like to roll his body on hers.
He swallowed. “A few hours.”
She gave him a lazy smile. “You let me sleep too long.” Then she sat upright with a bolt, her face mere inches from his. “Is she all right?”
That helped his body simmer down. He nodded. “She’s sleepin’. Still. She did wake about three hours ago and want some soup.”
“Did she have some laudanum too?”
“Aye.”
“She’s probably due for more in an hour or so.”
He didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t like that his ma needed the medicine so often. That was decidedly not a good sign. So he changed the subject.
“Ye speak a different language, eh?”
Her dark brows furrowed. “I speak a little Latin. It’s been useful with my career. But I—” she stopped quite suddenly, almost appearing as though she wouldn’t continue. Her lips pursed, twisted, then softened with a shy smile. “I speak a little Lakota Sioux, my native language. At least I did when I was young. I don’t know if I remember much of it.”
“Ye do in yer sleep.”
Those lovely dark brows shot up, arching in surprise. “Really?”
He nodded. “It sounded so bonny, what ye said.”
“Can you repeat it?”
He struggled to remember, then shook his head. “Sorry, nay. But it was pretty.”
For a long moment they stared at each other. She caressed some of his wild red hair from his cheek, pulling it behind his ear, where her delicate fingertips lingered on his lobe, then grazed his whiskered jaw line. He caught her hand, laying it on his blue plaid lap, making her stop the blazes it evoked.
He tried to think of something else to say, anything, because the heat in her eyes made him think that if he divulged in it he would surely drown in her fire. Again, she must have read his mind, for she pushed forward, catching his lips to hers. It was just a slight taste of her, barely a kiss, but the instant she touched him, he was done fighting. His mouth moved of its own accord, melding against her, pushing back. His tongue was in her mouth faster than he could think, his hands around her uncorseted waist quicker than he should have moved.
She merely wore a white shift. And when he kissed down her thin neck, he saw that the fabric was nearly translucent, allowing him to glimpse at her perfect round breasts, the dark color of her nipples showing as they pebbled while he kissed along her collarbone. Lord, how he wanted to cup her globes, feel her hardened nipples against his palms.
Wrapping her fingers into his shirt at his shoulders, she pulled him down. Easily he acquiesced, licking and kissing the valley between her breasts. Her skin was so luscious and golden. So lovely. And somehow tasted lightly of salt and...flowers. Or perhaps that was her scent invading his thoughts? Her natural odor was soft, floral, feminine, yet somehow still strong. It was intoxicating, especially so as he nibbled around her neckline, wishing her shift would simply vanish.
She channeled her fingers through his hair. He felt the leather tie at the nape of his neck give, and she fisted his waves, slightly pulling as she gasped when he kissed closer to her right breast. Glancing up, he gauged her reaction. Had he gone too far?
Of course he had. He was mauling her mere minutes after she’d woken. He tried to brace himself with his arms beside her body, tried to lift away, but she caught him, pulled his lips to her own, where she hungrily tasted him, invaded his mouth with her hot tongue. She kept tugging, pulling, arching until his chest met hers. He moaned into their kiss as he felt the tight peaks of her breasts brush against him. His body instantly reacted, tugging at his bullocks, making his cock come to life. Jesus, he wanted her, wanted nothing more than to strip her naked, kiss every inch of her lithe body, then lick her between her legs until she cried out for him. Only then would he fill her, let himself feel her internally. He thought of her hot and wet and ready for him, and through brute force he pulled himself away from her, fearing what he wanted was too much, too fast, too sweet. And would hurt like hell when she left. It would hurt that much more if he made love to her.
She gasped looking up at him quizzically. Her lips were reddened and slightly swollen and he wondered if he’d already been too rough. He had to shave, that was for sure.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“I think I’m supposed to be the one sayin’ that.”
She grinned, but shook her head. “No, I took things too far.”
So they had pushed things a bit much. She agreed apparently.
His heart tugged within his chest. He’d hoped she’d think the kiss, actually the kisses, hadn’t gone too long, hadn’t had too much passion, but was the right thing to do.
Swallowing, he tried to think of anything to save his wounded pride. “While ye slept—”
“Which you let me sleep way too long.”
“Ye needed it.”
“So do you. Lay down. It’s your turn to rest.”
Before he could stop her, he found himself right where her wee body had been. She’d pulled him down, and the instant he lay on the pillow she’d been on, he scented her all over again, making his erection more noticeable, he was certain. He tried to sit up, but she straddled him in a heartbeat, pushing him down with her hot core on his stomach, the heels of her hands pressed against his chest.
“I insist you sleep here.”
Lord, if she wiggled down, she’d find his hardness against her pert bottom.
She cocked her head with a grin. “I want you closer. You sleep here from now on. Got it?”
He could only nod, barely able to think other than her warmth on his belly. Then in a flash she flung herself off him. He still had both feet on the ground and faster than he could protest, she was unlacing his boots. After taking both hoses off his legs, she made sure he was fully in the bed, under the covers, which he bunched around his pelvis, hoping it concealed the proof of his desire for her.
“I’ll tend to Helen now. You rest. Got it, big guy?”
He found himself smiling at that as she stood beside the bed with a faux scolding expression.
“I want to meet the laird’s personal physician when he’s here.”
She nodded. “Then I’ll wake you at that time.”
That would more than likely be six hours away, and he wasn’t sure he could sleep. He should have been exhausted. Hell, he knew he was. But with Fleur’s scent invading his mind, his body, he could think of precious little else other than the way she kissed, the way she pulled him until they’d touched, heart to heart.
God, it would kill him when she left him.
She gave him a sweet, tiny kiss, then straightened. “I know you understand orders, so listen to me, Duncan. I need you to get some rest now. I’ll take care of everything meanwhile. If something happens, I’ll wake you. I promise. But now, you just sleep.”
She soothed some hair from his face, caressed his forehead with her cool fingertips, and before he knew what had happened, he followed her orders.
*
A
week passed with Fleur seducing Duncan into her bed, only to have her leave it the moment his head hit the pillow. There were strange interludes where Fleur would kiss him senseless, and he would wonder if he wouldn’t just give in, roll onto her and see where things might take him. Of course, he knew where he wanted to go with her.
Or did he?
She would leave. Leave him.
Everyday Helen made little progress, further dampening Duncan’s mood. If it weren’t for the mind-blowing sessions with Fleur, he might have taken to the sport of caber tossing. He did feel tense enough to uproot a tree and throw it. And as much as kissing Fleur made his head spin and put a massive grin on his face, the moment it was over he was drawn back to his time, this moment.
His mother only woke for more laudanum. Mrs. McVicar and he had to force her to eat. He woke once to hear the sounds of coughing and retching, then found Mrs. McVicar, Dr. Stevens—the laird’s physician, and Fleur funneling a tincture of beef tea and medicine down Helen’s throat. It was wretched to watch, and he could only turn, feeling like a coward. He should have helped, he thought. But he couldn’t.
That was his ma who wouldn’t wake.
That was his ma who starved into a small shape of herself, her face more bones than soft smiles.
That was his ma. The women he’d loved and adored throughout his life, no matter her decision about Albert.
She was leaving him.
Since he’d come back from Sweden, he’d felt...being home and around his mother, it had started to feel as it should have been all along—a connection with his ma that he’d remembered from when he was a bairn. But now she was . . .
He couldn’t finish that thought. Wouldn’t dare.
Waking in the early dawn, tucked deep into Fleur’s scent and white blankets, he felt at once more lonely than ever before as well as more content. As much as he knew Fleur was leaving, like his mother, he couldn’t stop himself from feeling...
Well, that was another thought he didn’t want to finish.
He knew he felt strongly for the lass. There was no doubt about that. But let himself name that feeling? Nay. May as well finish him off then, for he knew once he gave the word for how he felt, he’d want Fleur to stay with him. Thanks to the fae, or however she’d come to be here, she was already gone while she remained.
Duncan stretched in the large feather bed as he noticed through one of the chamber’s windows pink etchings against puffs of midnight blue clouds. This room had been his brothers’. But hardly one of them had lived here. It was such an odd predicament, and somehow like Fleur—gone while she remained, a comfortable room where no one lived. It was a dichotomy he didn’t know how to remedy, other than to just let it happen.
He’d keep falling for Fleur; his mother’s illness would augment; Cromwell’s New Order Army would continue marching north, then he’d end up alone with his sword, the one instrument in this world he resented more than anything else.
During this week he’d come to realize how he hated being a mercenary, hated training young men to kill, hated the lot of it. He’d have to talk to Rory about needing to stop, permanently. But his captain had gone again with a couple dozen of the troops. No one knew where he’d ventured, or what he was about, but it gave Duncan more time to think of a way to convince Rory to discharge him.
Duncan had no clue what he could do after he retired his sword. But it felt like the right thing to do.
Besides, once his mother and Fleur left him, he’d more than likely run around the countryside like a loon, chattering to himself, and go insane.
Suddenly a small hand stretched across his chest. A delicate forearm rested on him.
He hadn’t even seen her, Fleur, sleeping beside him. He’d been so lost in his thoughts as well as trying so hard not to think about some things.