Ian stood naked, spread-eagled, his hands and feet bound to stakes that had been driven into the dirt floor and overhead beams.
He cared not that his body was spread, bared to whatever Fiona chose to do with it. Knowing Fiona, he doubted there would be any imagination involved. At one time, he could have called up a wee bit of interest in how she intended to devour him after all her years of being thwarted in her quest for his sexual services. Not now.
He felt only anger. And fear.
Anger that his thoughts of Kathy had made him careless. When he’d left the cave to check his horse, he’d been deep in argument with himself over her claim that she came from a future time. He could not believe it. He would rather believe in magic and witchcraft. At least those were things many thought possible. No way could she prove what she claimed. If he ever chose to believe her, he must abandon all he knew of his world and set himself adrift on a sea where only his faith in this woman anchored his soul. And if he chose to believe, then he must also accept that if she returned to her time, she would be lost to him forever. He chose not to believe.
Fear. Had Kathy discovered him gone? Had the priest harmed her? He flexed his muscles in a vain attempt to free his arms. If she was unharmed, had she gone for help? He closed his eyes at the thought that she might get none. If the Pleasure Master didn’t return, then a new one would have to be chosen. Neil and Colin would be happily rid of him.
Ian’s greatest fear? That Kathy would not wait for the men of his clan to free him. That she would set out on her own. He opened his eyes. That she would try to . . .
He narrowed his gaze on the window behind Fiona. Watched as blond curls rose above the ledge, followed almost immediately by a pair of wide blue eyes.
. . . rescue him. “God’s teeth!”
“Aye. Ye ken there’ll be no escape from me, Ian Ross. Ye’re truly mine.” Fiona drew her tongue across her lower lip.
Ian was reminded of a bitch in heat.
Fiona offered him a practiced pout. “Ye’ll not be able to show me yer skills this first time, but I couldna wait to see all that I’ve missed these many years.”
“Ye should free me so I may give ye all ye’ve missed.” The blue eyes peering at him over the window ledge narrowed.
Fiona’s laughter offered a husky promise. “Not this time, Ian. I must take my pleasure from gazing on yer body, and”—her voice lowered to a hungry whisper—“touching ye where I wish. ’Tis a joy I’ve waited long for.”
“And does yer joy include touching me wi’ that?” He dropped his gaze to the whip she held by her side.
He lifted his gaze in time to see his blue-eyed watcher’s attention shift to the whip. Her eyes immediately widened again.
Fiona shrugged. “I use it when riding. I would only use it on an animal that didna give me a pleasurable ride.” Her smile suggested that the using of it on him might bring her added excitement.
Ian frowned. For all the beauty of her red hair and green eyes, Fiona Mackay had a dark heart. But Fiona was not his greatest problem.
He must find a way to keep Kathy from bursting through the cottage door to attempt his rescue. Where were the men who’d been outside? If Kathy remained out there, she’d have a chance to escape into the forest when they returned. He must keep her outside until the Ross men arrived to release him.
Even as he coldly planned what he must do, something warm and new moved in him. She’d cared enough to follow him. To arrive so quickly, she must have ridden his horse. Few would be so brave. Now he must keep Fiona from turning and seeing Kathy at the window. He must also hold Kathy’s attention long enough to give the Ross men time to reach them. If they were coming.
“Let me guide ye, lass.” He dropped his voice to a husky murmur filled with erotic promise; it was what Fiona would expect from the Pleasure Master.
“Guide me?” Fiona’s gaze turned predatory, heated.
“Aye. Listen to my words even as ye touch me, and ye’ll know an . . . orgasm such as ye’ve ne’er known before.” The men had lit a small hearth fire, and even though Ian’s back was to it he could feel its heat. Sweat dampened his bare body, and he felt a drop of moisture slide down his chest, over his stomach, until it reached his groin.
“Orgasm? What is an orgasm?” Fiona’s gaze followed the path the drop had taken.
Her greedy stare should have excited him, but he felt only distaste.
“’Tis an . . . explosion of pleasure.” Ian looked past Fiona to where Kathy had raised herself higher, so he could now see her mouth.
For a moment, the corners of her lips curved into a small smile at his remembrance of her orgasm description.
Even as he watched her lips, he felt another drop of moisture slip down the side of his neck, bead on his nipple, then continue its journey over his stomach until it slid between his legs.
Kathy moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, and Ian didn’t need to look into her eyes to know what she was looking at. He could feel the touch of her gaze.
Desperately, he tried to focus on Fiona, to ignore the familiar stirring, the growing pressure. But it seemed he had no control where Kathy was concerned. His gaze returned to her, to the wet sheen of her slightly parted lips. He could imagine her warm breath between his open thighs, her soft lips touching—
“Ye grow hard thinking of what we’ll do together, Ian,” Fiona said. “I ken why women have whispered of ye. Ne’er have I seen a man so . . .” She seemed unable to think of a word worthy of his erection.
Ian’s pitiful attempt to think of all things disgusting had no effect on his arousal, which seemed determined to live its own life. And it was responding to the warm flush in Kathy’s cheeks, the growing heat of her gaze.
“I must have ye, Ian.” Fiona’s eagerness was like rolling naked in honey. No matter how sweet some might say the honey tasted, ‘twas not comfortable when it was sticking to every part of one’s body.
“But I want ye in the comfort of my own bed. I’ll call my men, and we’ll leave immediately. We should reach home by night.”
Thank God for Fiona’s unwillingness to mount him amid the dirt and dust of the cottage floor. And mount him she would. Fiona would always need to be most powerful. She would ride him as she rode the stallion she had tethered outside, and he had no doubt she’d use her whip if he didn’t move strongly enough.
I’ll call my men, and we’ll leave immediately. No! He couldn’t let Fiona turn around and see Kathy. Her men would capture Kathy, and Ian knew what her fate would be once Fiona realized who she was.
“Dinna be so quick to call yer men.” Think. What should he say? He’d used words to weave sexual fantasies for so many, and the words had come easily. But knowing that Kathy’s safety depended on his words somehow robbed him of his wits. “Let me give ye a taste of the pleasure ye’ll have wi’ me.”
Fiona’s smile was all things savage. “Show me yer power, Pleasure Master.” She tapped her whip lightly against her thigh. “Dinna disappoint me.”
A quick glance at Kathy assured Ian of her outrage, her readiness to hurry to his rescue. He rushed into speech. “Close yer eyes, Fiona, and listen to me well.
“Ye enjoy power. The power to bend people’s bodies to yer will, even though their hearts, their minds deny ye. ‘Twould ne’er please ye to have a man who didna fight ye. ’Tis the power to take yer pleasure from a man’s body even as ye see the hate in his eyes that has always been yer desire. Ye’ve hidden it well from yer father, for it isna seemly for a maiden to have such dark wishes.” He watched Fiona carefully, as he’d watched so many women, looking into their souls and sensing their most hidden desires. Desires they often feared admitting even to themselves. Why havena ye looked into Kathy’s soul? What do ye fear?
“Aye. ’Tis what I wish.” Her eyes remained closed.
Ian watched Fiona swallow hard. He wouldn’t look at Kathy, didn’t want to see the revulsion in her eyes as he did what he’d always done so well.
“Imagine, Fiona.” His voice lowered, roughened with no conscious thought. “Yer father has died, and there are no others to lead yer clan. Ye’re the new laird of Clan Mackay. Ye may have anything ye want and none may say nay.”
He couldn’t stop himself. He glanced at Kathy. And wished he hadn’t. Her face was wiped clean of all expression, but he saw the confusion, the dawning horror in her eyes. He looked away. He would do what he must to keep her safe.
“Ye’re in the keep’s dungeon, Fiona. Yer men have captured yer greatest enemy, one who has fought many battles wi’ ye, one who hates ye above all others. Ye’ve ordered that he be stripped naked and chained spread wide for ye. Now ye will have yer revenge.” He watched Fiona’s breath quicken, her fingers clench around the butt of her whip. “Open yer eyes, Fiona. See yer enemy. Look into his eyes and see the hate.”
Fiona opened her eyes and stared at him with a gaze already glazed with the picture he’d drawn in her mind.
“Know him, Fiona. Ye canna break him wi’ torture. He’ll die defying ye. But there is another way.”
“Tell me.” Her voice was choked with her need.
“Humble him wi’ yer body, Fiona. Touch him, stroke him, until he moans wi’ his lust for ye, knows that not even this part of himself can he keep from ye.” Curiosity pulled at Ian. “And before ye begin, tell him what fate awaits him if he fails ye.” He’d like to know whether he would suffer her whip if his fantasy didn’t please her. Thoughts of her whip would spur him to greater effort.
“I would give his body to all the women to use until he died from the using.” Her satisfied smile anticipated such an event. “And I’d watch.”
“’Tis a horrible end.” Ah, Fiona. Most men would storm yer keep to experience such a fearful fate. He made sure he didn’t show his amusement.
Remembering his own personal watcher, he glanced at the window. Kathy’s gaze locked with his, and she offered him a tentative smile that didn’t quite reach her worried eyes. He shared her smile in his mind and realized how much comfort the sharing gave him.
“Touch him wi’ yer hands, yer mouth, until he grows so hard for ye he fears he’ll die from the wanting.” He stared into Fiona’s eyes, allowing her to see all the hate and contempt he knew she’d expect from her greatest enemy. He didn’t have to pretend overmuch.
Ian despised what he must do next. He lifted his gaze to Kathy once more, kept it fixed on her eyes, her mouth. Fiona would not accept his fantasy if he had no arousal, and to keep his erection he must create his own fantasy.
His own fantasy would be of Kathy, and in weaving it he must involve her, whether he wanted to or not. Once before, she’d almost yielded to him because of his power to create a make-believe world. That was not how he wanted it to be between them.
But he knew if he involved Kathy, she wouldn’t rush into the cottage to face Fiona. She would be safer outside, and Kathy Bartlett’s safety meant more to him than anything else.
“Tell me what ye feel, my enemy.” Fiona moved close, then slid her fingers over his chest, his stomach, between his legs. Cupping him, she squeezed gently.
Ian shuddered.
He closed Fiona from his mind, looked only into Kathy’s eyes, thought only of Kathy touching him.
“The scent of ye fills me—warm woman’s flesh and cool morning mist. I want to hate it, but I canna. I can only think of my need to hold yer breasts bare in my palms, to bury my face between them, to be close to yer scent. But I canna reach ye. I can only accept what ye give me.” Heed me, Kathy. He sensed Kathy’s desire to look away, to break the web he wove, but he wouldn’t let her, would make her understand that he spoke to her.
Fiona’s lips touched the pulse in his neck, then seared a path to his nipple. But it wasn’t Fiona’s tongue that flicked the sensitive nub, then touched his chest, his stomach with light kisses that made him moan within his fantasy. It was Kathy’s lips, trailing a heated line of erotic torture.
“Tell me what ye feel.”
The whisper was every woman he’d ever touched, every woman who’d ever touched him. No, that was wrong. It was Kathy.
“Yer lips touching my body excite me.” His hips began the slow thrusting motion of mating as he sank deeper into his fantasy. With each thrust his erection scraped the cloth covering the breasts of the woman who now knelt in front of him. He was so hard, his flesh so sensitive, that he thought he would die if he couldn’t soon slide his arousal over warm bare skin. Over Kathy’s flesh. “Would that I could taste ye as ye taste me. I would kiss the soft skin low on yer stomach, listen to yer soft gasp, feel yer muscles clench wi’ yer need, see yer legs part in readiness. I would move between yer thighs and kiss a path along the inner sides—slowly, gently.” He stared into Kathy’s eyes, saw his own hot intensity reflected back. “Then I would put my mouth on ye, slide my tongue over yer most sensitive part, hold ye as ye writhed.”
“What do I taste of?” The voice was harsh, barely in control. He didn’t recognize it, didn’t care. His whole world was centered on Kathy.
“Yer skin is the taste of the sea on a warm summer’s day.” Know that I speak of ye, Kathy. “The warmth between yer thighs is the sweetness of . . . rich chocolate.”
He watched the awareness grow in Kathy’s gaze. The deep glow added to the heat and desire he already saw. Never before had he wanted a woman with such hunger. But he sensed with a detached despair that her desire was for the Pleasure Master, not for him.
“I dinna know what chocolate is. Tell me what ye would do next.”
The harsh demand was accompanied by the slide of the whip handle between his legs. Back and forth, back and forth.
It was Kathy’s fingers sliding between his legs, fondling him, clasping him. He could hear the rasp of his own breathing, felt as though his chest could no longer hold his pounding heart. “I’d bury myself deep inside ye, feel ye tighten around me, thrust again and again until I could hold back no longer, then I would spill my hot seed into . . .”
He could stand no more. “Free me, Kathy, so I may pleasure ye in all these ways.”
The sudden stillness seeped into him. He blinked, suddenly aware of small sounds—ducks quacking, men shouting in the distance, Fiona’s quiet hiss of anger.
“This was not for my pleasure, was it, Ian Ross? Ye werena thinking of me. Ye were thinking only of this Kathy. Ye bastard!”
The shock of Fiona’s whip slashing across his lower stomach brought a shocked gasp from him. God’s teeth! She’d barely missed his—
The crash as the door was flung open shook the cottage. Vengeance stood in the opening wielding a sword that glowed and hummed, along with the dreaded curling iron. Vengeance was not soft spoken.
“Bitch! You hurt him.”
Ian could feel a trickle of blood sliding down his stomach, but he was as stunned as Fiona, unable to take his gaze from his small, fierce-eyed rescuer.
“I’m going to curl your toes and everything north, then I’ll kick your behind all the way back to your sorry castle. You don’t mess with a New York woman or her man.” Kathy’s eyes narrowed to vicious slits of righteous wrath. “If you start running now, you might work off some of that fat and maybe some man’ll want you, but I don’t think so.”
Her gaze fixed on the glowing sword, Fiona shook with fear as she edged toward the door. But obviously one of Kathy’s barbs called for a response. “I’m not fat.”
“Hah!” Kathy continued to stalk her.
With a shriek of mingled fear and fury, Fiona stumbled from the cottage.
Behind her, Kathy could hear the terrified shouts of the Mackays mingled with the cheery sounds of her toy defenders. The Village Gorilla was in great voice as he belted out “Macho Man,” and she hoped the Mackays appreciated his enthusiastic dancing. A terrified shriek sounded behind her. Well, maybe not.
“Are ye mad, woman? Save yerself before the Mackays find ye.”
“Gee thanks, Kathy, for saving my bare buns from Ditsy-the-Dominatrix.” But Kathy couldn’t maintain her sarcasm for long as she gazed at the bleeding welt on his stomach. “God, Ian, I can’t believe she hurt you.” Sinking to her knees, Kathy ran her fingers tenderly over the wound. “I wish she hadn’t run so I could pull every hair from her head.”
Kathy glanced up to catch his wry grin, but his grin faded as her gaze locked with his. The memory of his fantasy moved between them, left Kathy with questions she feared to ask. She drew in a deep calming breath. They’d talk about it later.
“We’ve got to get you out of here.” A sudden rise in the noise level made Kathy turn to glance outside.
“The Rosses are here.” His harsh exhalation said all that needed saying about his relief. “My clothing is in the corner. Find my knife and free me.”
Kathy grabbed his clothes and knife; then quickly cut him loose. She stood in the doorway checking the progress of the battle while he dressed.
When Ian joined her, she looked up and grinned. “I think the Mackays are getting more than they bargained for.”
Peter was busily patrolling the line of toys, urging them on with quotes from every military movie ever shot, while Malin clung to Fiona’s skirt with tenacious claws.
Fiona’s shrieks joined the din. “Someone get the bloody beastie off me. Look, I have scratches all over my hands.”
No one seemed particularly interested in looking at her scratches or stopping the battle to pull Malin off her skirt. Hiking up her skirt, she did a clumsy jig, trying to shake the cat loose.
Kathy couldn’t help it, she laughed. Loudly.
Fiona turned to glare at her. “Someone kill that woman. Don’t kill Ian Ross. I’ll do that.” Her shrieked orders got the attention of a few of her men, who moved to obey her.
Ian crouched with his knife in his hand, ready to defend Kathy. Frantically, Kathy reached into her backpack and pulled out her last weapon, her final line of defense—a remote-controlled model Apache attack helicopter. She’d done a little of this with her dad when she was young, and she hoped to heaven she remembered how to work the thing.
Taking a deep breath, she flipped the switch. “Showtime, baby.”
The helicopter rose into the air with a satisfying whirr, then flew toward the advancing Mackays.
The helicopter was the final straw . . . for both sides. With bellows of terror, both Rosses and Mackays scattered in all directions. Fiona, who’d finally managed to shake Malin loose, followed her terrified clansmen into the forest.
Kathy glanced up at Ian, who was staring at the hovering helicopter with disbelieving eyes. “Hmm. I guess they’re not quite ready for the helicopter concept.”
He gazed down at her with confusion, but no fear. Once again, Kathy marveled at how different he was from everyone else she’d met in this time. He might not understand, but he didn’t immediately think everything strange was the product of demons and devils. A man ahead of his time. But not far enough ahead.
“I would know how ye make this thing fly.”
“You can take it apart when we get back to the cave.” Kathy guided the helicopter to earth, then started to repack the toys she’d brought while Ian went for his horse.
Ian seemed strangely quiet as they all piled onto the horse and started the long walk home. Just when Kathy had decided she couldn’t take one more second of silence, Ian spoke.
“Why did ye say Fiona was fat when she isna fat?”
That’s right, Ian. Pussyfoot around what that incredible fantasy did to both of us. “It’s one of the arrows-to-the-heart insults every woman hates. I guess you’d have to be a woman to understand.” Truth wouldn’t be denied. “Actually, Fiona is beautiful.” Ugh. She hated admitting things like that.
Peter’s lights flashed. “Picture a girl who took a nose dive from the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down.”
Kathy laughed and hugged Peter. “Saving Private Ryan. Great, Peter. Thanks for the loyalty. I love you, too.”
Ian frowned. “Ye love this toy?”
“He isn’t a toy, you know.” She thought for a moment. “He isn’t always good, and I know he’s responsible for my being here, but . . . he makes me laugh.” Now that made a whole lot of sense.
“Aye.”
They plodded along in silence again.
Finally, Ian drew in a deep breath.
Kathy closed her eyes. Here it comes.
“I’m sorry.” His gruff apology seemed dragged from him.
“For what?” She wasn’t going to make it easy for him.
“For forcing ye into my fantasy. I wouldna have done it if I could have thought of another way.”
With Peter and Malin sitting in front of her, she couldn’t hug Ian, so she drew her fingertip down the middle of his spine, then let her hand rest on the top of his hip. His muscles clenched.
“I enjoyed the fantasy, Ian.” Wow, no kidding. She’d wanted to heave Fiona out the door, then explore every inch of Ian’s wonderful body. And what else did you want to explore, hmm? “You couldn’t force me into a fantasy I didn’t want.”
“I could. Think of yer bandit fantasy.”
Now she was getting mad. “I was responding to you.”
“Ye were responding to the Pleasure Master.”
She heard the stubborn note in his voice that indicated nothing she said would change his mind. Interesting. It was almost as though he thought of Ian Ross and the Pleasure Master as two different men. This was important stuff, but she’d think about it later. There was something else she wanted to know.
“Why did you need me in your fantasy?”
He shifted in the saddle, and Kathy had the feeling he didn’t want to answer.
“Fiona wouldna believe me if my body didna show desire for her.”
Kathy frowned. Body? Show desire? Oh! She smiled. “Uh, could you make that a little clearer?”
“God’s teeth!” He hunched his shoulders and Kathy’s smile widened. “I could only grow hard wi’ thoughts of ye. Is that clear enough for ye?”
“I make you hard?” What an . . . energizing thought.
“Ummph.”
She’d take that as an affirmative. “Here, you hold Peter and Malin for a while.” Not giving him a chance to argue, she made the exchange.
Then she slid forward until she was pressed against his back. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she rested her head between his shoulder blades. Her eyes started to drift shut, the warm male scent of him triggering heated memories of the cottage, his body.
Don’t even think about it. This would not be a good thing to do. But she was thinking about it, and she was going to do it.
Hoping that Ian thought her hands were slipping because she was falling asleep, she slid her fingers low on his stomach, then paused.
She heard Ian’s soft laugh. “I think I’ve given ye a weapon I shouldna have given ye. If ye want to test yer power, dinna be shy about it.”
He placed his hand over hers then guided her fingers beneath his plaid to lie warm against his skin. Slowly, he slid her hand up the inside of his hard, smooth-muscled thigh. He removed his hand and she knew she’d have to take the final step.
Knowing her fingers shook, but unable to control them, she settled her hand over his sex.
And stopped thinking. She always thought. In-your-face one-liners when she was scared or upset. Warm fuzzy thoughts for friends and family. Analytical thoughts mixed with the previous two when she was working, depending on whose hair she was doing. But she always thought. Now, her mind was like Mr. Winston’s head—bald except for a few wispy strands around the edge.
Oh, but she could feel—emotions, Ian’s hot male flesh filling her hand, growing hard, pushing against her palm. The emotions were new, raw. Too new to understand, too sensitive to examine in the strong light of reason. And so she concentrated on his arousal—the size of it, the strength. Imagined it deep inside of her, stretching her. Knowing that he would make her . . . happy.
Kathy didn’t want him to make her happy. She didn’t want to know joy in this place because she didn’t belong here, didn’t want to take any ghosts with her when she returned home. Too late. She closed her eyes completely and slid her fingers the length of his erection, marveled at its smoothness, traced a tentative line around—
He inhaled sharply a second before he pushed her hand from him. “’Twould be upsetting to Peter and Malin if I dropped them on their wee heads, but if ye keep touching me so, I willna have a choice.”
She didn’t open her eyes as she settled her hand around his waist, then smiled. It felt like Madonna’s “Material Girl” smile, equal parts of wicked anticipation and sensual promise. In all her New York life, she’d never known she could smile like that.
“Ye might wish to stick something in yer ears, lass. I think Peter readies himself to speak on the matter.” His muttered suggestion sounded resigned.
Kathy pictured Peter’s amber lights flashing.
“To love is to suffer. To avoid suffering one must not love, but then one suffers from not loving. Therefore, to love is to suffer, not to love is to suffer. To be happy is to love, to be happy then is to suffer, but suffering makes one unhappy, therefore to be unhappy one must love or love to suffer or suffer from too much happiness. I hope you’re getting this down. . . .”
“Love and Death?” She wasn’t sure, but she knew there was only one way to escape Peter.
She slept.