Page 43 of The Highlander's Accidental Wife
Orrick nodded. “I have wondered if his own men might take care of him for us.” He shrugged a shoulder. “Nothin’ more we can do tonight. Go rest, and we can head back to Morighe in the morn.”
Damien clenched his jaw. Orrick was right. There was no reason to continue this chase—the trail had gone cold. And with the dreams that had plagued him this week, he’d been hard-pressed to ignore the heat in his belly and the alluring distraction of a hazel-eyedSassenach.
Yet, the very fact that he found himself longing to return to Morighe made him think that he should continue this chase.
“Oye, Damien,” Orrick said, and Damien stirred. His cousin only used his given name when irritated. “We arenae riskin’ the wilds in the dead of winter. Nae with the storms that had come through.”
Damien shot him a glare, and Orrick punched him lightly on the arm.
“Ye great dobber. Did it nae occur to ye that Lachlan might be tryin’ to lure ye north to yer bloody death?” He jerked his chin toward the dense mass of trees. “Nae even the Unseen Folk dare walk those paths in this cold.”
Heaving a sigh, Damien finally relented with a nod, and Orrick also sighed, then clapped his cousin on the shoulder. Damien watched him lope off before turning toward the watchtower, heading inside to find a spot to settle in for the night. The men not on watch kipped here, and though he was used to bunking anywhere, here, as Laird, he had to take the High Chamber.
Another name that did not quite match the humble stone room with a single long window overlooking the hill. But perhaps in itstime, it had been grand—or more likely, one of his relatives had considered it a great joke.
Rubbing his neck, Damien found a bit of warm straw and old bedding, then wrapped himself in his cloak.
But as soon as he closed his eyes, he jerked awake, staring at the door.
The shadows outside had shifted—they seemed deeper, quieter, and colder. He’d probably been asleep for an hour or so, he guessed. Maybe less. And the door was closed—no one was there.
She isnae here.
He pressed a hand to his thundering heart. Every damn night, Helena plagued him, and it was much the same—her appearing in the doorway or the place he slept in, wearing that too-big dressing gown, her hair braided, and her eyes soft.
More than once, this had sent a bolt of panic through him, fear and shock rearing up despite his exhaustion—his tired brain convinced she’d somehow followed him and wasn’t where she was supposed to be.
Twice, he thought he saw a shadow pursuing her and had woken up scrabbing for his sword, certain that a Viper had her.
However, at other times, Damien knew that his memory was replaying their last encounter in his study. As though he could ever forget it.
It was then that the minx tiptoed in and lay beside him, watching him with solemn, hazel eyes. A few times, Damien had sworn he’d felt the weight of her head as it rested on his chest and her hand sliding up his side. Her scent was a phantom on every breeze, and his loins tightened while he breathed out in a hiss.
Now, his mind turned toward that, the way Helena seemed to yearn for his touch, how she went pliant under his tongue, and the way she gripped him. More blood rushed to his length, and he growled, then fumbled with his kilt, before giving himself a rough stroke.
He pictured the surprised expression on Helena’s face, her smiles, and the flash of her eyes. A groan escaped him. How many times was it now that he’d done this to himself? True relief always seemed to hover out of reach as he gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut. Tried to imagine it was Helena. But dammit, she was too far away.
Instead, in his desperation, he suddenly thought of her watching him. Eyes wide, lips parted, and the way her head might tilt in that curious way?—
Damien came with a curse and blew out a sigh. Restless heat still crawled along his bones, and now he pictured Helena leaving the room, glancing back with cool amusement.
Aye, she’d probably find it amusing how badly she’s stirred me blood.
Damien found a handkerchief to clean himself up. Rolling back over, he gritted his teeth and tried not to think of the muffled sound of her soft sobs, the way his heart had crashed into the stone floors. And then the book that he’d been trying to give her, but instead took back to his rooms.
There, he’d paced and called himself a bastard, knowing he should help her—perhaps let her go.
However, here, in this watchtower, he made the same vow toneverlet her go.
She could spurn him—or try—not even come to him when he returned to Morighe, and he would not care. A grim smile spread across his face as he stared out the window into the cold, endless stars.
Helena, ye are mine.
And strangely, as Damien fell asleep, he dreamt of coming home to Morighe and Helena running to meet him.
“There you are,”she said and tossed her head, her glasses catching the winter sunlight. “How could you leave without saying goodbye?”
And in that strange way that dreams had, they were standing together, outside the watchtower, the cold wind whipping the snow about them, like a cloud of falling stars. Her hand rose to his face, and then she leaned forward, whispering in his ear,“Don’t you know that you are mine?”
