He lifted her off her feet with a satisfied groan and swept his tongue inside her mouth.
She had a wonderful time exploring his taste while reveling in the feel of his powerful arms wrapped around her. His hand on her backside felt quite pleasant, too. And his noble intentions pushing into her belly compelled her to lift her knees and wrap her legs around his waist until she was nestled intimately against him.
He broke the kiss the moment she did that and looked down at her so fiercely that Catherine stopped breathing.
“You come alive at the most inopportune times,” he growled, letting her slide down his body until she was standing again. He shoved her head against his chest with a shuddering sigh and squeezed her tightly. “One of these times, I’m not going to care who’s around or what’s happening,” he continued over her head, his guttural voice rumbling under her cheek. “My noble intentions be damned.”
Catherine smiled into his chest. “I love it when a man talks romantic.”
He tilted her head back so she could look up at his scowl. “Every man has his limits, little Cat. And we’re about reaching mine.”
Her smile broadened. “Women have limits, too,” she said, reaching up and tapping the tip of his nose.
His arms tightened. “I’m having a hell of a time reading you, woman. One minute you’
re a wary mouse, and the next minute you’re all but exploding in my arms.”
She stuck out her lower lip. “Then maybe you should quit kissing me.”
“Like that’s going to happen,” he muttered, lowering his head and capturing her mouth.
“Catherine,” he said, once he was done kissing her again. “While we’re here, you only have to remember three things. That you carry your stick with you at all times and that you never go anywhere alone.”
“And the other thing?” she asked, kneading her fingers into his strong shoulders.
He kissed her once more, his mouth lingering possessively. “That you’re mine,” he whispered fiercely, setting her away and taking her hand to lead her back to camp.
Catherine was beginning to doubt her dream theory, wondering how she could know so much about medieval Scotland that she could picture it in such detaiclass="underline" such as the saddle she was sitting in for their ride down the mountain, with its crude buckles and uncomfortable wooden seat, and the swords and daggers and ancient gear of the warriors.
Come to think of it, she couldn’t remember ever having a dream that involved so many senses. The rabbit she’d eaten before they’d left camp had been delicious, roasted on a spit over a crackling fire. And the smell of the campfire had permeated her plaid. And the men! The three MacKeage warriors and the one who had accosted her in the woods smelled of pine and spruce and male sweat and horses.
Catherine couldn’t remember if she usually dreamed in black and white, but she was certainly seeing technicolor now—the bright red hair of some of the warriors, Robbie’s rich gray eyes, the warm purples and grays and greens in their plaids, and the sharp, vibrant blue of the sky slamming into the peak of the dark granite mountain.
Even sounds were vivid and eerily real, such as the rhythm of the horses’ hooves sliding over rock or muffled by moss and the low, guttural conversations among the men as they rode single file down the winding path.
Catherine found she liked the cadence of Gaelic speech. It sounded as if they were singing one minute but had a hairball caught in their throats the next. The rhythm was strong, rather musical in tempo, with forced and then whispered syllables punctuating each sentence.
They finally reached level ground, and Catherine stretched in her saddle to see Ian riding behind his son, one hand waving excitedly through the air as he talked nonstop.
She turned and looked behind her to see Robbie riding one of the other warriors’ horses.
The man who had stripped naked to give her his plaid had apparently decided to walk home with the man who’d grabbed her by the stream.
She pushed her stick back over her shoulder as she smiled at Robbie. He’d fashioned her a sling from a length of rawhide, so that she could carry it without smacking herself silly.
Robbie pointed over her head, and Catherine turned forward to look, only to gasp. She could see the towers of a tall, imposing castle through the trees, looming like a dark specter that was anything but fairy-tale pretty.
“That’s the MacKeage keep,” he told her. “We’re almost to the village. Listen, you can hear it.”
What she heard was the sound of children shouting and laughing, and it made her suddenly homesick for Nathan and Nora. Robbie had said she’d be back before they woke up, but to her, she’d already been gone almost a day. As interesting as this dream was, she didn’t know how much longer she could stand being away from her babies.
The path opened up at the edge of the village, and Catherine couldn’t even begin to take it all in. There were huts, maybe a hundred of them, dotting the hillside, reaching all the way to the castle. No, to thekeep, Robbie had called it.
There were people and children and chickens and goats and dogs everywhere. Smoke rose in lazy clouds from several of the huts, forming a blanket of haze over the village.
Several children rushed toward them, and Robbie moved his horse up alongside hers.
“Stay right beside me,” he said. “And try not to look so overwhelmed,” he added with a chuckle. “We’ll be going to Gwyneth’s cabin first.”
Within minutes, they had a parade of curious people following them. The women were quite pretty, with long hair in varying shades of auburn pulled back in braids and loose tails. They wore colorful blouses, dark skirts that looked to be woven wool, and shawls of the MacKeage plaid.
Catherine sidled her horse closer to Robbie when she noticed some of the women pointing and the men crowding toward them. Several of the men were half naked, their plaids rolled down around their waists, exposing broad chests and beefy arms.
Their impromptu procession wound through narrow village lanes, scattering animals and people who quickly closed back in behind them. They finally came to a stop in front of a cabin that sat in the shadow of the keep, and Niall tossed his leg over his horse’s neck, slid to the ground, then turned and helped Ian down.
Catherine was close enough that she could see the old man was trembling, swiping at his eyes several times, and not knowing what to do with his hands, until he finally clasped them together at his waist.
The murmur of the crowd hushed, and Catherine saw a tiny woman, nearly as old as Ian, step out of the cabin with a baby in her arms and a child of about three clutching her skirt. Niall took the baby and handed it to the younger woman who had stepped out of the cabin behind Gwyneth. He took his mother’s hand and guided her to a stool by the door as he whispered something to her. Niall gently lowered her down onto the stool when the older woman gasped and her knees buckled, her wide, shocked eyes staring at Ian.
Ian wasn’t moving a muscle now, except for his hands, that he kept wringing and twisting at his waist.
Robbie reached over and took Catherine’s hand, and held it on his thigh as they sat on their horses, his thumb rubbing her knuckles in soothing circles.
Ian took a hesitant step forward, then stopped and stood trembling. He suddenly fell to his knees with a loud cry, wrapped his arms around his wife, and buried his face in her chest.
Gwyneth MacKeage dug her fingers into her husband’s back, buried her own face in his hair, and quietly sobbed.
Catherine used her free hand to wipe the tears streaming down her cheeks, and Robbie leaned close. “This is what I’m about, Catherine,” he whispered thickly, his warm breath caressing her ear. “This is when my duty becomes my calling.”
It was also when Catherine’s infatuation with Robbie MacBain became love. She looked over at him, at his own shining eyes as Robbie watched Ian hugging his one true love, and her heart swelled, and thumped, and started racing. This man—this incredible, fascinating, towering giant—was more than a dream guy. He washer dream.Her true love.Her calling.