Charming The Highlander

He groaned in triumph.

He kissed her again, and Grace clung to him, opened her mouth to his, and wrapped her legs around his waist, lifting her hips against his erection. His groan became louder, more urgent, and as arrogantly male as he was.

He turned onto his back, taking her with him, and Grace found herself straddling his hips again. She didn’

t swat his hands away this time when he captured her breasts and sent a bolt of sensuous heat coursing through her.

Callum came bursting through the bedroom door, Morgan one step behind him.

“If you’re not wanting your carpets bloodied,” Callum said, “you’ll get yourself downstairs and shut up Stanhope.”

“Dammit. Get the hell out of here,” Grey shouted, the power of his voice jouncing Grace like an earthquake.

Callum came to a sudden stop. Morgan ran into his back. Both men turned as red as their hair and immediately faced the hearth. But they didn’t leave.

Grace certainly wanted to. Preferably by seeping through a crack in the floor. She didn’t need a mirror to know her cheeks were flaming red. She hastily buttoned her blouse back up and tried to slide off Grey.

He took hold of her hips and held her in place.

She glared at him.

He gri

“We’re sorry, Grey,” Callum said, still facing the hearth. “But Ian’s threatening to toss Stanhope off the north tower. He caught him trying to steal one of the snowcats.”

“Out,” Grey repeated, with less volume this time.

Callum and Morgan headed for the door. Morgan darted a quick look over his shoulder at Grace and shot her a wink. He turned back and all but ran over Father Daar, who came walking into the room next.

Grace closed her eyes and groaned, throwing herself forward and burying her face in Grey’s chest. She felt his sigh lift her a foot toward the ceiling and blow against her hair.

But it wasn’t until she heard Jonathan calling her name as he walked into the room that Grey finally moved. He tossed her off him and stood up, leaving Grace to tumble about wildly on the bed for balance.

She ended up rolling to the other side of the bed and slipping down onto the floor.

“Goddammit! Can a man not have privacy in his own house?” Grey shouted at them.

“Grace!” Jonathan said with a gasp, staring at her with an appalled expression distorting his face. His features suddenly darkened, and his eyes turned hard. “What are you doing?” he asked in a tone that said he already knew and that he didn’t like it.

“Anyone still in this room in two seconds is dead,” Grey said. “And that includes you, old man,” he added, glaring at the gri

Grace looked down to see if she could crawl under the bed and disappear. First, Father Daar had caught her kissing Jonathan, and now, he’d found her in bed with Grey. The man was going to make her kneel in a corner for nine days straight.

Apparently, Callum and Morgan believed Grey’s threat.

They grabbed the old priest by his arms and all but carried him out of the room. Jonathan, still standing across the bed staring at her, didn’t move. It was as if he couldn’t come to terms with what he had found.

Grace watched as Grey strode to the chair by the hearth and picked up the sword. Her embarrassment forgotten, she jumped on the bed, crossed its great width, and pushed Jonathan with all her might.

“Get out,” she said, stepping down to the floor, still pushing him. “If you want to save Podly, you’ll get out now.”

The name of his precious satellite rousted him into action. He turned and walked to the door but stopped and stared first at Grace and then at the half-naked, dangerously serious man holding a sword in his hand, looking as if he knew how to use it.

“I’ll…ah…wait downstairs,” Jonathan said then, eyeing the sword as he shrugged his shoulders to straighten his shirt, smoothing down the front of it with an unsteady hand.

Grey advanced on him. Jonathan pivoted and ran out. Grace heard him bump into the end of the hall and then stumble down the stairs. And she flinched when Grey slammed the door shut with enough force to rattle the windows.

Grace could only gape as he turned and stood facing her. The man looked like a medieval warlord from the same picture book as his castle. He was impressively naked from the waist up, his broad shoulders and muscled arms rippling with tension that also shone in the taut planes of his chiseled face. His bare feet were planted wide for balance, and his sword was gripped with the surety of one who was comfortable handling it.

If he replaced his pants with the plaid hanging over the hearth and added a sporran like the one Michael had mentioned, Grey would actually look like a Scots warrior ready for battle.

Grace took a step back. He started toward her, and she turned and jumped on the bed, moving to the middle before she faced him again. He didn’t stop his advance until his thighs were touching the blankets.

“You’ve buttoned your blouse crooked,” he said, his soft voice in stark contrast to his posture.

“I…I’m not falling for that trick, MacKeage. The minute I look down, you’re going to jump me.”

The left corner of his mouth kicked up. “You aren’t afraid of me, are you, Grace?”

“N-no.”

“Then what seems to be the problem?”

“You are. You should see yourself,” she said, waving at him. “You look like a…like a…”

“A what?”

“Like a warrior.”

He puffed out his already broad chest, ru

“You think so?” he asked. “Does the look appeal to you?”

“Appeal to me?” she whispered. Was he teasing her now? “Like an ancient warrior,” she clarified, more to test his reaction than to insult him.

He didn’t bat an eyelash. “I’m thirty-five. That’s not old.”

He was toying with her, the way a cat toyed with a mouse just before he ate it. Grace slowly inched her way further across the bed and caught her lip between her teeth to keep it from trembling. If she didn’t know better, she would think she was the one who had traveled eight hundred years through time—

backward.

Grace couldn’t get Michael’s story out of her head. Her stomach churned, and she felt dizzy in an Alice-in-Wonderland sort of way.

“Where…where did you get that sword?” she asked, slowly heading for the opposite side of the bed.

Her feet got caught up in the blankets, and she lost her balance. Grey was on her before she finished falling, covering her with his body, his sword now resting beside her head.

“It’s been in my family for generations,” he told her, continuing their conversation as if nothing had changed. “Would you like for me to straighten your blouse for you?”

She blinked at him. “N-no,” she said in a whisper, unable to look away from his amused eyes. He was laughing at her, enjoying her state of confusion.

She didn’t know which confused her more, what she was seeing or what she was feeling. He was acting like a throwback to an era long dead, yet she loved the feel of his body covering hers.

It felt natural. Right. And so very confusing.

He brushed the hair back from her forehead and kissed her there. “If you don’t get up now, I’m going to finish what we started,” he said, ignoring the fact that he had to move first, since he was on top of her.

Not that Grace wanted to move. She wanted to lose herself with this man, until all her problems ceased to exist and the old priest died so she wouldn’t have to face him ever again. She wanted to stay in bed with Greylen MacKeage until the rain stopped falling, the ice melted, and Jonathan Stanhope went home.

She also wanted to ask Grey a very important question.

But she just didn’t have the nerve, or the courage, to deal with his answer if that answer was yes—yes, he had been one of the men in Michael’s storm four years ago.