The Highlander. Heather GrothausЧитать онлайн книгу.
KISSING THE HIGHLANDER
MacKerrick gave a mighty tug on the cloak and Evelyn was jerked against his chest. In a blink, he had dropped his mouth to hers in a hard kiss, wrapping one long arm around her shoulders and pulling her to him.
Evelyn was so shocked that she froze, her very toes tingling from the sensation of MacKerrick’s warm, dry lips against hers. The scruff on his upper lip chafed at hers with a delicious prickle. He eased his head back and softened his mouth, kissing first her upper lip and then her lower, then sliding his tongue along the seam. He kissed her again gently, wetly, and Evelyn felt her knees go watery, her eyes close, her fingers uncurl.
MacKerrick’s solid chest twisted for an instant, and then his other arm was around Evelyn, pulling her even closer. His skin smelled of fresh winter air and his own masculinity and Evelyn let her hands creep up over his chest, let her mouth soften and her head tilt. It was achingly brilliant, his kissing, his strength all around her, and she felt protected from the harsh season, from the grays, from her haunting past…
Books by Heather Grothaus
THE WARRIOR
THE CHAMPION
THE HIGHLANDER
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
The HIGHLANDER
Heather Grothaus
ZEBRA BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
For Petra
My girl, my Alinor.
For Jackson
This story began and ended with you.
Love you, Punkin.
For Celesta
You were right—a crow is funnier than a rabbit.
Love you, Leti.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
Prologue
November 1077, the Scottish Highlands,
near Loch Lomond
“I’m dying, Eve.”
The words washed over Evelyn colder than the icy sleet pelting her back through her cloak, causing her to stumble over a tree root in the night-soaked forest. She yanked on the bridle in her hand, halting the mare that carried Minerva, and tried to blink away the frigid rain running into her eyes. Thunder, low and threatening and foreign to this cold November storm, drowned out the old healer’s rasping breaths.
Evelyn swallowed, her own throat thick and raw in the brutal wind. “Now?” she croaked. At Minerva’s nod, barely a twitch of rough, black wool, Evelyn released the exhausted mare and reached patting, grasping hands up the old woman’s bony thigh. “Give me your hand. I’ll—”
But to Evelyn’s horror, the frail woman teetered to the far side of her mount and slipped from the horse’s back, landing in the wet darkness without a cry, but with a sound that mimicked dropping a bundle of dry sticks. As Minerva hit the ground, a delicate thread of lightning struck deeper in the forest and the mount reared in fright, bolting away before Evelyn could regain hold of the beast. In a blink, the mare—and the women’s few remaining supplies—was absorbed into the dense wood.
Evelyn stood in the sleet, as rooted to the ground as any of the thousands of trees crowding around her, stealing her breath with their evil, eager closeness. The stinging rain seemed to sizzle on her fevered cheeks and brow, and her chest tightened even further, painful wheezes her only sustenance as she stared down at the still jumble of ragged clothing that was Minerva.
So this is how it is to end, she thought apathetically, and for a brief moment, she let all the fragments of her life swirl around her like dead leaves in the stormy gale, nicking her cold, thin skin with painful memories. The horror of her own birth; her father’s vicious murder; the hellish priory she had escaped. Only weeks ago, Evelyn had felt there was nothing and no one left for her in England, and so had impulsively accepted the invitation to accompany this dying witch on the month-long journey to the land of the old woman’s birth—the wild, inhospitable terrain of the Scottish Highlands.
Evelyn had thought to make a fresh beginning. A new life.
Instead, it looked as if her life would end, lost in the malicious depths of this Caledonian forest, her body too ill and weak to carry on alone now that the ancient healer was dead. No mount. No food. Not even a flint and blade.
Mayhap the monks were right, her fevered brain reasoned. I am evil, unnatural. This is God’s punishment for my wickedness.
So be it, then, she rallied. I am weary—let Him judge me.
Evelyn sank to her knees on the wet, rocky ground. What little faith she still retained would not allow her to seek death outright, but she would no longer try to evade it. Let Him take her in His time. She would but wait.
Then the bundle of dry sticks that was the old healer rattled and stirred and rose up in a lumpy mound.
Evelyn could only blink as the ancient one crept across the frozen forest floor, a strange, breathy moaning coming from her with each spindly limb she dragged forward.
“Haah. Haah,” Minerva wheezed, inching relentlessly onward.
Evelyn felt tired, helpless tears well in her eyes at the pathetic sight, but she had no strength left, no will.
Until she heard Minerva’s next rasping whisper.
“Haah. Ronan. I’m coming, Ronan. At last, at last…”
Evelyn’s eyes narrowed. Was it a man’s name Minerva had spoken? Mayhap they were nearer the old witch’s clan than Evelyn knew.
Mayhap there was hope for them yet.
Evelyn scraped together the last crumbs of energy she possessed—she’d not eaten in four days—and drew herself forward onto numb hands to crawl after the old woman.
“Minerva,” Evelyn called, the voice coming from her blistered throat as little more than a creak. “Wait.”
“Ronan,” was Minerva’s only answer as she pulled herself up a low drift of jagged rocks piled at the base of a tree so wide and tall that Evelyn could not glimpse its ends in the winter night’s