Only one thing made his temper more sour than Tomas’s presence in his house, and that was the prospect of spending his private time with Meghan with thirty-three pairs of ears outside his door.
“Let’s get to work,” he suggested.
Colin could damned well handle his own affairs without an audience.
Broc scarce slept.
He didn’t even close his eyes until the candle extinguished itself. He hadn’t dared move, lest she awaken and leave him. It had all seemed such an exquisite dream, and if he was dreaming, he damned well didn’t want to wake.
Harpy had other ideas.
The dog buried its wet nose in his ear. The shock of it startled him. The animal seemed to grin down at him, satisfied with his reaction.
“Willful hound!”
Elizabet stretched atop him, turning a beautiful smile on her belligerent dog. “What are you doing to Broc, silly dog?” she asked as though she expected an answer and then yawned prettily.
“She’s competing for your attention,” Broc said, grinning.
Elizabet reached up to kiss him sweetly upon the lips and his heart swelled with joy over the gesture.
Broc dumped her at his side and rolled atop her, caressing her brow, admiring the silky perfection of her face. She closed her eyes and her lashes lay thick upon her cheeks. He bent to kiss her reverently upon the lips, hardly believing the completeness he felt in her arms.
“Kiss me again,” she demanded sleepily, wrapping her arms about his neck.
Broc didn’t need to be asked twice.
With a growl of pleasure, he pressed his mouth to hers, and she responded by entwining her legs around his.
He made love to her then with all his heart and soul, knowing that far too soon it would be time for him to go.
CHAPTER 22
“Ihave something to show you,” Broc said, leading Elizabet along the moorland. It was early yet and he knew Piers and his men would be put off the search until the fire was well under control and they could better determined how it had begun. It bought him a small reprieve, and where he was taking her, there wasn’t much chance they would be discovered anyway.
He wanted to share something with Elizabet that he had never shared with another human being—not even his cousin Cameron.
Very near where he had buried his dog Merry, he had erected a cairn for his family—and upon it he had carved their names, marked with the year they had perished. Though their bones rested leagues away, this was his private monument to a life he had abandoned and a people whose line would perish with his own death… unless he brought into the world a son.
In this craggy country, there were countless cairns dotting the landscape, but most had not been built by the hands of a seven-year old boy.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
Harpy barked at their heels.
“A sacred place,” he said simply.
They reached the spot long before the noon day sun rose into the sky and the shadows cast along the hillside were long and thin. They came to stand beside the cairn, with its stones heaped one upon the other with loving care. Broc had taken great care not to rob the cairns of others, for to desecrate the tombs of the dead could never bode well for the living.
“What it is?” Elizabet asked.
For a moment, Broc simply stood there, unsure where to begin or why he had even brought her to this place to begin with. In some small way, this was much the same as bringing her home to meet his mother… except that his mother no longer had eyes to see or arms to embrace her.
“I built it when I was a wee lad,” he said. “I’ve come to think of it as the tomb of my fathers, but it lies empty.” He looked at her meaningfully. “I am the last of my tribe.”
“But I thought…”
He shook his head. “The MacKinnons took me in when I was but a boy, though in truth we share a bloodline that hails from the first King of Scotia.”
