Unbound: (InterMix) (19 page)

“I’ll take a coach straight to some town on Loch Ness next time,” she said. “Now that
I know there are far better ways to invest my time in the Highlands than cross-country
hiking.”

“Lucky me.”

“I’ll come bounding up the hill with a wheelbarrow loaded with fresh strawberries
and magnums of champagne.”

Rob smiled tightly. “Just some milk for the coffee would suffice.”

And a crank radio.
One of those ones you could charge just by winding it. She’d donate however much
to NPR during the next pledge drive and score one for him. It could be an early Christmas
present . . . In fact, she’d happily mail him one as a surprise, if only he were on
a postal route.

She nearly giggled aloud, feeling like one of those girls with a mysterious boyfriend
“from camp.”
No, you can’t meet him—he lives in a cottage in the middle of nowhere! But he’s hot.
And English. And he totally exists.
But might he feel suspiciously like a mirage, a few weeks from now . . .

No, not with the vivid memories they’d made together.

And whatever new ones they’d make tonight.

Chapter Twelve

They walked in easy silence for a long while, until Merry caught sight of the cottage
at the top of its lonely hill. “Almost home.”

“Almost.”

“This has been such a fantastic day.”

Rob smiled. “Agreed.”

“You know what would make it just perfect?”

“What?”

“Could we cook out? Like, over a campfire?”

“It’ll be cold, but all right. One small trout does not a decent supper make, but
I could season some of the venison I’ve got stored, do some sort of hermit-style teriyaki
skewers.”

“Yum.”

“You’re on rice duty.”

“Yes, sir.”

Shit, why couldn’t this vacation go on for another month? Even another few days? Why
couldn’t she just say nuts to all her commitments, her job, her bills, her dad and
Phil’s wedding? In fact . . . if not for that last one, she’d have been tempted. Very
tempted. Tell her boss and landlord she’d been detained on espionage charges or something,
spend the entire winter happily holed up with Rob. But her dad’s wedding was an event
thirty-five years—and generations of civil struggle—in the making, and she wouldn’t
miss it for anything. Not even this.

But damn, she had to shake her fist at the fucking
timing
.

You owe me, Dad. Muchísimo.

They reached the cottage, and Rob organized his things by the pump.

“That fish smells awfully fishy,” Merry said as he unwrapped it.

“Funny, that. Would you guard all this a moment?”

“Guard it from wh—oh.” The dog brushed past, making a beeline for the catch. Merry
slipped her bag from her shoulders and crouched, distracting Nameless with a spirited
body-scratching. He wasn’t the only interested party. Two crows arrived, perching
on the edge of the roof.

“Thanks,” Rob said, returning with a filleting knife and a wooden cutting board. Merry
watched with a mix of awe and
eww
as he cleaned the fish, tossing the guts aside for the crows to feast on.

“They have good timing.”

“They’re bright,” Rob said. “They know what it means when I come home from the northwest.”

“Stalkers.”

“Maybe.” He squinted up at her, smiling in the sunshine. “But I take what I can get,
company-wise. The scavengers I usually attract aren’t nearly as lovely as you.”

She laughed.

Rob finished the cleaning the catch and stashed it inside the house while Merry tackled
the knife and board, the crows dodging the pump’s spray to steal the last little flecks
of meat the water rinsed away.

Rob returned carrying his bow and quiver, and Merry’s heart gave a happy leap.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Let me change into some dry underwear, and you’re on.”

The wind was at their backs as they tramped down the hill, and she twisted her hair
into a bun. “My birthday’s in August,” she told Rob.

“Oh?”

“So if you wanted to get me a present, a girly-sized badass archery glove wouldn’t
go astray.” She grinned, letting him know it was a joke.

“If I find myself in a town with a shop that sells such a thing, I’d be delighted
to buy you your own bow.”

She blushed at that. She could tell he meant it. And she could feel in her body the
pure joy such a gift would bring. Such a cool and sporty present, fit for the sort
of woman she finally felt herself becoming.

They took turns at target practice for two hours or more, until Merry’s arm stung
despite the leather guard and her neck ached. Even then, it was hard to stop. But
it was late afternoon, and the day’s nonstop activity had her stomach rumbling again.

“How about an early dinner?” she asked, dropping the last of the collected arrows
into the quiver Rob held.

“Works for me. Though first I might take a load of laundry to the creek, in case you
needed some clean underwear and socks for your hike.”

She took him up on the offer. He returned shortly with a dripping heap of clothes,
which he hung along a line run between the cottage and shed. She admired his old mustard-colored
tee draped beside her fuchsia top, flags from two very different homelands, histories,
lives. Yet here, together, somehow, warming under the same sun, swaying in the same
breeze.

It took a while to prepare the fire and get a pot of rice started inside, to find
two thick logs to serve as seats before the crackling flames. The dog returned as
Rob brought out a platter with the fish and some venison and potato chunks he’d seasoned,
and a fistful of metal skewers.

“Perfect,” Merry said, delighted by the evening’s menu.

Rob handed Merry her half of the main course just as she returned with the rice. She
didn’t think she’d ever tasted fish this good. Clean and perfectly complemented by
salt and pepper, crispy here, juicy there.

“Wow. That’s amazing.”

“Nothing fancy,” he said, but smiled at the praise all the same. He tossed a sample
to the dog.

“That’s why it’s so good. No oil, no breading, no sauce.”

“No frills,” he agreed. “Like everything else out here.”

Merry’s gaze jumped to his wrist, to the rope cuff. It had to be quite dry by now—dry
and scratchy. She smiled to herself.

With the entrée done, they slid potato chunks and hunks of venison onto skewers for
the next course. It was all so simple. And perfect. So uncomplicated. Merry felt an
invisible cloud pass across the pure blue sky. She’d be flying home again, and so
soon. Back to work. Back to reality. Back to all those numbers, all that diligence,
when out here, exercise and food and her own body were so . . . thoughtless.

It was fear, she realized. Not an overwhelming kind of dread, but a quiet, nagging
panic.

Not now,
she warned herself. Not on this final evening. Not with Rob.
Focus on all the wonderful things. There are so many.

The sky grew dusky. She crossed her ankles and hugged her chest with her free arm,
leaning in toward the fire, close enough to feel its heat on her face, that same force
crisping the potatoes’ skins. “This place—your home—is really lovely.”

“It does the job.”

“There’s only one thing that’s missing.”

“Electricity?”

She turned her skewer. “Guess again.”

“Hot water? Mobile signal? Grumpy bastard-proofing?”

She laughed. “No. Not even close.”

He seemed to puzzle over it seriously for a moment. “People?”

“
Music.
Don’t you miss it?”

“I do, yes. But I love the silence, as well.”

“If we had wine, I’d turn this into a one-woman campfire sing-along.”

“Why do you need wine for that?”

“Same reason I need it to dance. It’d probably take a whole bottle if I ever needed
to find the balls to try karaoke.”

“Dutch courage,” he teased, eyes on the flickering fire.

“My mom always called it ‘Scotch courage.’ I thought that was the term until I was
about twenty-five. I wonder why it’s called that—Dutch.”

“Because of gin,” he said, still staring at the flames. “Gin came from Holland, originally.”

“Leave it to a former bar owner to know.”

Rob didn’t reply. He seemed happy for the silence, and Merry decided to join him in
it as they finished their meal. But after a long, peaceful stretch marred only by
the popping logs, he said, “Sing something.”

“Where’s my gin?” she teased, deflecting.

He met her eyes. “I miss music, too. I’d love to hear you sing something. Anything.”

“I dunno.”

He smirked, eyes crinkling. “I’ve bared a lot more of myself to you than a less-than-perfect
singing voice, Merry.”

“And I’ve indulged quite a few of your requests already, Rob.”

“Please?” He said it so quietly, with so much hope in his eyes, that she caved.

“Okay. You don’t own a guitar, do you? Or a harmonica?”

“Sorry. Never my forte.”

“Well, you better join in if you know the words.”

And the words to what? And for whom? Rob, herself, her mother . . . perhaps all three.
She hummed the opening guitar strums to “All I Want” and found the key, playing that
old record along in her head. When the lyrics kicked in, she knew every one, every
pause and nuance, and they flowed from her, easy as breathing. She let her eyes close
and her feet tap. She heard her mother’s voice, as essential a part of this song as
the crackling of that overplayed album—real as the crackling of the fire before her.

She was no Joni, to be sure. She squeaked on the highest notes, but she ached so badly
for music, her modesty dissolved, sucked up into the darkening sky with the wood smoke.
After a couple verses, Rob joined her.

He didn’t seem to know the words, but his deep voice cushioned her airier one with
a low, harmonious hum. She shivered, deep down inside her skin, to feel united with
him this way. Just like the fire and meal and mountains—pure and elemental.

All too soon, the song came to an end.

She opened her eyes and found him smiling at her. The dog was at his side, head resting
on his shoe.

“That was lovely. You have a beautiful voice.”

“Oh.” She waved the compliment away.

“That was Joni Mitchell, if I’m not mistaken?”

She nodded. “My mom’s idol.”

“I don’t really know that one. I know the one about the parking lot, though. If you
fancy accompaniment.”

“Who’s your favorite singer? Or band?”

“I used to be quite fond of old R&B.”

She cocked her head at him. “Really?”

He grinned. “Really. I never heard either of my parents listen to them, but they had
a bunch of old albums I discovered in my teens. Otis Redding and Muddy Waters. Marvin
Gaye. Bill Withers and that lot.”

“What songs do you know by heart?”

“Oh . . . I wouldn’t know until I tried to sing them.”

“‘The Dock of the Bay’? I know that one, mostly. The part about heading for the Frisco
Bay, anyhow.”

They muttered together in harmony until Merry found the opening lyrics, buried deep
in her memory bank. From there, it was effortless. Her body vibrated each time their
voice hit some sweet, resonant chord, and she felt her hair stand up, electric. They
ran through all the Beatles songs they both knew, David Bowie and Fleetwood Mac—their
parents’ music—until all evidence of the sun was gone, until gold sparks were chasing
one another from the fire and into the endless black sky.

“You’re shivering,” Rob said. And if Merry hadn’t been already, his voice, so quiet
and deep in the night air, would’ve done the job.

“I guess I am.” And just like that, her awareness shifted. They’d connected voice
to voice, sound to sound, but all at once it was his body she wanted to communicate
with. She wanted to tell him things with her own body, things like
Thank you for this afternoon, in the loch. What else do you like, you lovely, twisted
mystery of a man?

He stood with a little groan that spoke for Merry’s own stiff muscles. “C’mon. Let’s
get you inside.”

They doused the fire and gave the dog good-night ear-scratchings at the back door.
By the light of a ripening three-quarter moon, Rob entered the dark cottage ahead
of her, and a lantern came on in the den just as Merry got her shoes pushed off.

“Tea?” he asked, rubbing his hands, glancing around the kitchen.

“No, I’m fine.” No way was she chancing a full bladder. She’d much rather stay in
a warm bed with Rob than have to go dashing outside to use the bathroom.

“I’ll pass as well, then,” he said. “Let me just get the dinner things cleaned before
the animals get nosy. Would you mind tending the stove?”

“Not at all.” She was proud to know the drill.

Once Rob disappeared and the fire was crackling to life, Merry wandered around the
den. Her gaze jumped to the support beam standing between the kitchen and living area,
to the thick old iron hook that held the lantern. She pursed her lips to hide her
smirk as a wicked thought dawned.

After a few minutes, the telltale squeaking of the pump outside ceased and Rob returned
carrying the platter and skewers and rice pot. He set them on the stove and dried
his hands on a washcloth.

She waited until he looked to her, then smiled.

“This has been quite a day,” he said. “How shall we cap it off, do you think?”

She let her grin turn sinister, meeting him by the warm stove.

“Yes?”

“Come.” She took his hand, leading him to his bedroom. He lit the lantern above the
bed.

She stripped to her underwear and base layer as Rob shed his shirt and swapped his
jeans for drawstring bottoms. They climbed under the covers and she freed her hair
from its bun.

Their mouths came together.

She could kiss this man for hours. These soft lips, in turns firm and sensual, his
tongue stroking hers, those faint growls vibrating at her throat. The balance of power
might swing dramatically when Rob was enjoying the sex he liked, but the way he kissed
her was just . . . damn.

These kisses said,
I can take care of a woman in bed, in any way she wants, for as long as she can handle.

The truth of his sexuality was far different, far trickier. But Merry didn’t mind.
This was a chance affair, not a marriage. Plus she liked that dichotomy. She liked
knowing his secret. She liked that a man could make her feel this mastered with his
mouth and tongue and fingertips, but when it came down to it, he could only come by
imagining he was helpless. At her mercy.

Right now he was nearly above her, a strong hand cupping her ribs, a hard thigh creeping
between hers. She welcomed the gruff intrusion of his other leg as he moved, bracing
himself above her, and welcomed the dark promises his eyes made. She hugged her legs
to his hips and sucked a sharp breath when he lowered, his cock unmistakably hard
behind soft flannel.

“Wow,” she murmured.

His smile carved lines beside his lips, turning his face from intense to mischievous.
“Wow what?”

“Are you thinking about the rope?”