The Charm Stone Read online

  He pushed back the heavy rug he'd hung over the open doorway. Despite the fact that he had no visitors and could remain unseen if he wished, he found he still enjoyed the illusion of privacy. He motioned her inside, holding the lantern out to guide her. “Just a moment while I light the tapers.” There were several sconces on the walls and a trio of thick candles on the low stone table.

  She made a small, indistinguishable noise as the rooms glowed to life and he actually hesitated before turning to her. What she thought shouldn't have mattered to him. He told himself it was only because of her obvious reluctance to accept Fate's design that he felt this unnatural need to… to woo her. Ridiculous notion really, considering he'd never had to woo anyone in his life.

  And yet there was a distinct sense of apprehension coiling in him when he turned back to her. “Humble lodgings, I know. But then I have little use for lavish comforts.” He said it dismissively, yet held himself still as he awaited her reaction.

  She looked around, cataloging the few meager belongings he had. He followed her gaze, thinking his armchair and small side table suddenly looked unbearably worn. The rug covering the floor shabby and threadbare. He kept the place swept clean, his linens as fresh as he could manage with water taken from Gregor's pump when the auld man was sleeping it off. All that time spent waiting, yet he'd never given a thought to having to impress his future mate. It was a bit late now, but it didna make him feel any less the fool.

  “Is all this real?” she asked. “Or does it all disappear when you do?”

  She seemed neither impressed nor unimpressed. He wasn't sure why that stung anyway, but it did. “I assure you everything here is quite real and quite permanent, inasmuch as things can be. I can close off the corridor leading to my rooms to keep any cu-riosity seekers out.”

  “And no one mentions the light in the tower window?”

  He noticed she still hadn't looked at him. “I dinna care much what anyone thinks. But I have a care when I make my presence known.” He said the last with emphasis, but she still didn't turn to face him.

  “So, the islanders know the castle and tower are… haunted?”

  He was growing impatient. “I care no’ what the islanders think.”

  She did turn to face him then. “Well, they still care about you. Or the role you played in their history, anyway.”

  That took him aback. So much so that he didn't know what to say.

  “If Maeve's feelings are any indication of how the island as a whole feels, you're not too popular.”

  “You've become chums with Maeve then?”

  “I wouldn't call us chums, but we're friendly, yes.” She tilted her head. “Maeve's seen you then? Funny, because she didn't seem as if—”

  “I've not met her or her husband. I've my own ways of knowing things. How is it that you've grown friendly with her?”

  “She and her husband, Roddy, found me a place to stay. Very nice couple. All the folks I've met are friendly.”

  He scowled, though why it bothered him that she was making herself at home here he had no idea. It was to his advantage that she like the island and its people. Perhaps he envied her easy way of fitting in. But then, he'd no’ had the chance to make a good first impression on his clansmen. “Glenmuir has always had a reputation for hospitality.”

  She turned from him and looked around again. “Exactly what did you do all those years ago to make these hospitable people dislike you so much?”

  “Ye should get out of those wet things,” he said instead, not at all interested in having a history lesson with her. Especially as it pertained to his role in it.

  Her gaze swung to his, wariness filling her eyes. “I, um, thanks, but you don't have to- A fire would be fine. I'll dry out quickly.”

  She was stammering. He swallowed a smile. Best to keep her off-balance, he thought. That way she wouldn't poke about in his past overmuch. She'd be too worried about his designs on the present… and on her.

  She had his cloak clutched tightly about her. Her curls clung to her head in damp, misshapen clumps, and her bare feet were dusty and dirty from traipsing through the tunnel. She looked like little more than a street urchin. Which did absolutely nothing to explain the surge of almost animal lust that spilled through him the instant he saw awareness bloom in her eyes.

  “I really must insist,” he said. “I'll see if I can find you something.” He strode to the next room, fairly confident she wouldn't try to run. After all, she knew he'd just bring her back again.

  He stared at his bed and the tumble of linens tangled upon it. It was large and well stuffed with down, his refuge on many, many a long night. He had a flashing image of tucking her away in here with him, tangling the lean length of her in those linens… and in him. He wrested his gaze away and rummaged through the trunk at the foot of his bed, pulling out a loose-fitting linen shirt and a swath of plaid. It wasn't much, but then he'd always been more concerned with comfort rather than fashion.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly, when he returned, the cloak falling open as she reached for the small bundle he held out to her.

  He was reminded then of how she'd looked, standing in the midst of a fury, rain lashing her lithe frame, plastering the thin chemise she wore to her skin. His body tightened anew, even as he fought against it. It was all well and good that he wanted her. It made things easier, for certain. Though he'd have done his duty, fulfilled his destiny and that of his clan, no matter her earthly appearance. But this… this rampant need wouldn't do. He had to find some element of control. He had never forced himself on any woman and, despite knowing his destiny was right at his fingertips, he would not force her to have him.

  But have her he would.

  He pulled his gaze from her and reined in his unruly impulses. “You can change in there,” he said almost gruffly, then motioned to his bedroom, where he'd lit one thin taper. He watched her go, surprised she'd done so without comment. In a short time he'd already come to realize she was a fully modern woman, one who had her own ideas and spoke them freely, with the full expectation that they be received with a weight equal to his own. He thought he'd prefer her silent and easily led. It unsettled him to discover that wasn't entirely true.

  He busied himself in front of the modest fireplace, wishing the stacking of wood and lighting of tinder would drown out the rustling of fabric behind him. It didn't. It was as if he felt every caress against his own skin.

  “Here is your cloak,” she said, coming up behind him. “It's pretty wet, but if you spread it before the fire—”

  He turned then, and froze in the act of reaching for the sodden material lying over her arm.

  She stilled as well, then looked down at herself before looking back at him. He was almost relieved to see the challenging light return to her eyes. Almost.

  “I'm perfectly aware I look ridiculous,” she said defensively. “I have no idea how to put these things on.”

  She did look ridiculous. Entirely so. And yet the heat pulsed through him anew. “It's a definite skill,” he said, unable to tear his gaze from her.

  She was lithe of body, aye, but not a small or petite woman, and still his shirt hung on her frame, enveloping her, lending her an air of fragility he well knew she didn't possess. And yet… Perhaps it was the clumsy way she'd wrapped the plaid about her hips, tucking the end in her waist rather than draping it over her shoulder.

  Could she possibly know how artfully his shirt clung to the tips of her breasts? Or that his fingers ached to push apart the gaping neckline just an inch or two farther to expose the roundness of her breasts to his gaze?

  His throat tightened, as did the rest of his body. He'd do well to move away, or, at the very least speak, defuse the sudden tension in the room.

  She suddenly seemed to realize where his attentions were directed, because she frowned and crossed her arms, covering herself. “You're blocking the heat,” she said, her tone returning now to the surly one he'd so quickly grown used to. Had he really misse
d it?

  “Aye, it would appear I am,” he murmured.

  She folded her arms even more tightly about her. “Men,” she muttered, then circled the small room the opposite direction he did and stopped before the fire, presenting him with her very stiff back.

  He wondered if she realized how regally she stood, or that her frosty demeanor did little to diminish his growing fascination with her. He wondered a bit at it himself. It had been a long time since cunning or the development of strategy had been something he needed to worry about. He shouldn't have been surprised to discover that the challenge of the chase enticed him, invigorated him.

  War was where he'd been trained to excel, strategically speaking. Looking at her frowning countenance, he suspected battle strategy might very well be necessary here. And yet… where to begin? He felt clumsy, rusty.

  The first rule of battle was to reduce the enemy's defenses while increasing your own. To that end, he moved away from her, toward the small larder he'd created in a narrow antechamber next to the hallway door. “I don't have much in the way of foodstuffs, but I do enjoy cheddar and bread with my wine. Would you care for some?”

  Rather than catch her off guard, she merely said, “I didn't know ghosts ate and drank.”

  He moved in behind her rigid frame. “There are some pleasures even we insist on retaining.”

  There was a long pause and the scant space between them fairly vibrated as the tension shifted, grew.

  Then, quietly, she asked, “Such as?”

  Had he imagined the hoarseness in her voice? The underlying note of interest?

  So much for building his own defenses, he thought ruefully. He'd managed to lower hers, yet one roughened little whisper and his body was galloping on, rushing headlong to the denouement. “Food, drink, the warmth of a fire,” he responded tightly, barely resisting the urge to touch her, to trace a finger along the delicate line of her neck, the curves of her broad shoulders. Her strength, he was surprised to find, called to him.

  “That's… that's all?”

  “What other creature comforts would you have me want?” he said, just beside her ear.

  The slight catch in her breath undid him. He did touch her then. Just the barest whisper of his lips on the side of her neck. She shivered and he dug his fingers into his palms to keep from pulling her against him. “There is the taste of a woman,” he said roughly. “Yet I have no’ been allowed to sample such a delight.”

  She stiffened slightly, then, after a moment, whispered, “At all?”

  He found himself stiffening as well, though in an entirely different way. “If I am to prove my worthiness, then I must only taste that which is my destiny.”

  She turned then, but backed quickly away when he reached for her. He took hold of her anyway. “I'm no’ going to attack you.” He moved her bodily away from the fire. “I was only tryin’ to keep you from torchin’ my finest plaid. You and fire are not comfortable bedfellows.”

  Despite the abrupt end to their provocative interlude, he grinned. There would be more. He knew this, and despite her frown, he suspected she did, too. “Ye needn't thank me, lass. Tis okay.”

  She overcame her embarrassment swiftly and made a face at him, which had him grinning rather than scowling. Such a change from the simpering lasses that had paraded in front of his brothers and himself.

  To his great dismay, she folded her arms over her chest once again. Where she stood now afforded him a delightful view of her profile as the glow from the table lantern lit her from behind.

  She bent down somewhat and intercepted his gaze. “You're worse than a construction worker, you know?”

  “A construction worker?”

  “Men who build things and leer at women.”

  “I suppose I've built my share of things, but I dinna leer.”

  She merely stared at him.

  “Och, leering is no’ the same as admirin’.”

  “Not from where I'm standing.”

  “Women,” he said darkly, wondering why he hadn't just tossed her on the bed first thing. His ancestors would have. Hell, his own brothers had. And it was precisely that impetuosity and lack of forethought that had landed him in the position of being forced to bargain his soul to the gods to save the remnants of his clan and any hope they had for a future.

  “You… you said something about cheese?”

  “Have a seat by the fire,” he said, then with a devilish wink as that sort of attention seemed to unnerve her the most, he added, “but no’ too close, lass.”

  “Ha, ha.” But when he took one step toward her she quickly made herself comfortable in the armchair that fronted the fire, arranging the folds of her plaid as a queen would her fur-lined robes.

  He stifled another smile as he went about collecting food and mead. Aye, she'd make his son a good mother. There was a small twinge somewhere near his heart when he thought of it. He'd always thought of his clan's future being in the hands of his son. His. Not theirs. He'd never really thought of it that way, other than to pray his faith in the Fates wasn't misguided and there would someday be a wee bairn to lead on where he had failed.

  But now he found himself turning, imagining the oddest things. A babe in her arms as she sat in front of the fire. Would she sit in this very room, then? Not likely. He turned back to his tasks, ignoring the chill that chased out the warmth inside him. He'd naught be here to see what she did, his bargain having been met and filled. So why imagine such a thing? He strode back to the fire and, with a clatter, placed the stoneware on the footstool she'd pushed to one side.

  “I thought you'd want to sit on that.”

  “Nay,” he interrupted her, sinking to floor beside it. “I've no need for softness,” he said, not caring how she took his surly manner. He'd gone soft himself there for a moment and would do well to guard against such lapses if he wanted to remain in control of things.

  He heard the wine splash in the tankard and forced his attentions back to her, though he kept his focus on the food. He sliced the cheese and flipped it onto a hunk of bread, then repeated the motion and nudged it toward her side of the platter.

  “Interesting knife,” she said, quickly picking up the food when he darted a glare at her. She took several bites, then, apparently unable to remain silent for more than two minutes-had he really thought this trait intriguing?-she said, “Is it a family heirloom?”

  He glanced down at the dagger, then back to his food, the fire… anything but her. “'Twas my father's.”

  “It's really interesting. The pattern on the handle is- Can I see it?”

  To her credit, she barely flinched when he swung his hard gaze back to hers as he flipped the dagger over in his hand. He presented the handle to her.

  “Thank you,” she said, with just a whiff of sardonic amusement. She held his gaze for a moment longer and just like that the mood changed. She quickly shifted her gaze to the blade.

  Oh yes, Connal thought, the chase is definitely on.

  “The workmanship is amazing,” he heard her say. “That's one thing we've lost.”

  He turned to find her shaking her head in dismay as she admired the scrollwork on the handle.

  “This bothers you?”

  “Too many things are production made.” She looked at him and shrugged. “People don't want to pay for craftsmanship, for the extra attention to detail.”

  “You say this as if it were a personal affront.”

  She smiled. “Well, my business hinges on those people who do feel the personal touch is worth paying for.”

  He was about to sip his wine, but lowered it instead. He'd been so caught up in his own destiny, he'd given no thought to the life she'd led before coming into his. The first ripple of concern chased along his spine. He washed it away with a swig of mead. “What is this business of yours, then?”

  “I'm a graphic artist.”

  Ah, he thought, a painter. He nodded, relaxing. He supposed that would be enriching for their child. “Art is no’ for e
veryone, I suppose.” He, himself, had barely paid it passing attention. War had consumed most of his life.

  “True. Especially when it's on a surfboard. But I do okay.”

  He'd just bitten off a hunk of cheese and almost choked on it. “You paint… those boards you ride?”

  “And quite well, she said modestly.”

  “You call that art?”

  Her smile vanished. “Why yes, yes I do. And so do a number of the elite surfers in the world. Along with collectors. My work graces the walls of any number of fine homes.”

  “Ah, then you paint on canvas as well.”

  She was scowling now. “No. They hang the boards. My father's boards,” she added pointedly.

  A point he was at a loss to understand. “What good does it do to hang a slab of wood meant for wave riding on a wall?”

  Heat filled her cheeks, sparks flew from her eyes. He really shouldn't feel so energized by it, he thought, but it was there, as exhilarating as tasting the fine skin of her nape.

  “Oh, I don't know,” she snapped. “Maybe the same reason you hang swords meant to slice people up on yours? She pointed over the fireplace.

  “Hardly the same thing. I don't call that art.”

  “You probably wouldn't know art it if bit you on the…kilt.”

  “You may have a point,” he conceded, with as much grace as he could muster. “I was never much for the fripperies or adornments.”

  She looked around his room and said, “I think it's safe to say that's an understatement.”

  “Do ye now?” He bit off another piece of cheese, rethinking the wisdom of goading her. After a moment spent hating himself for wishing he'd feathered his nest with the finest silks, just to show her he could give her fine things-which he couldn't-he grudgingly asked, “How did ye come to paint on these boards?”

  “My father. He was a world-class surfer in his day, worked part-time for some of the more well known board designers when he was younger. He was intrigued by the whole process and became a shaper.”