Beyond the Highland Myst(604)

And when he pulled her across the seats, stretched out his long muscular legs and drew her into his arms, she only gave a weary little sigh and curled up against him. Her jeans were still damp, she had no blanket, and could use the body heat.

Still, that was no excuse to press her cheek to his chest and inhale deeply of his spicy masculine scent. She did it anyway.

"You aren't falling for me, are you, Irish?" he purred, sounding amused.

"Hardly," she muttered.

"Good. I'd hate to think you were falling for me."

So would she. Oh, God, so would she.





12





Adam shifted position carefully, trying to take the pressure off his shoulder without disturbing Gabrielle.

She was sleeping in his arms. Had been for hours, easy as could be. Her face, in repose, was sweet, youthful, innocent, and utterly beautiful to him. He traced a finger down her cheek, studying the subtle, soft planes, wondering at what made beauty. In thousands of years he'd still not figured it out. Whatever it was, she had it in spades. She was warm and earthy and vibrant, unlike the coolly flawless females of his race. She was fiery autumn and spring thunder, while Tuatha Dé women were a silvery winter that went on and on. She was just the kind of lass a Highlander might take to wife; laugh with and argue with and make love to for the rest of his life.

She sighed in her sleep and curled closer, nestling her cheek against his chest. He understood what was responsible for the sudden change in her demeanor, what had caused the lamb to slump down in exhaustion against the wolf. Not trust, no, not from his fiery Sidhe-seer (though he was beginning to see some signs of thawing); circumstances alone had driven her into his arms. Until late this afternoon she'd perceived him as her greatest threat. Now there was a greater threat, and he was suddenly her only ally against it.

No matter the reason, he liked feeling her soft and yielding to his strength. Unconscious, vulnerable, entrusted to his care while her mind was steeped in dreams. He liked it a great deal. Enough, in fact, that he— who had no patience with physical discomfort— would put up with pain rather than wake her. Fortunately, the bullet had only grazed him, presenting no significant threat to his mortal form.

Hunters carrying guns. He rubbed his jaw and shook his head. When she'd told him what she'd seen, during the few pauses he'd permitted them while sifting place, he'd been incensed.

At himself.

What a fool he'd been. A week ago, he'd thought his most pressing problem a severe case of frustration and boredom. Then he'd found Gabrielle, and his most pressing problem had been how best to seduce her.

Now his most pressing problem was how the bloody hell to keep them both alive.

It didn't take Tuatha Dé genius to understand the significance of Hunters carrying human weapons. Not in the presence of Darroc.

How swiftly he'd forgotten all he'd left behind in Faery upon being banished from that realm— the complications, the tensions, the incessant court intrigues— but he'd been thoroughly wallowing in his aggravation at being human. What a fool he'd been to forget Darroc for even a moment. The bad blood between him and the High Council Elder stretched back four and a half millennia, to a time before The Compact between Fae and Man. To a time before the deadly spear and lethal sword his race had brought with them from Danu— two of the four Hallows, and the only weapons capable of doing injury to or even killing an immortal— had been removed from Faery and secreted away. All the way back to that day Adam had taken up the sword and laid open Darroc's face, giving him the scar he still sported.

He'd like to pretend he'd tried to kill Darroc for a noble reason, but the simple truth was they'd been fighting over a mortal woman. Adam had seen her first. But the queen had summoned him back to court for some nonsense or another, and Darroc had gotten to her first. Knowing full well Adam had wanted her.

Darroc had killed her. There were those among his race who believed that beauty and innocence could truly be savored only via their destruction. There were those among his race who, in that lawless time before The Compact, when they'd first arrived on this world and were scouting it, not yet having settled it. had fed like scavengers on the passion they could elicit from a human during sex. not caring that it killed the mortal in the process. He'd seen what Darroc had done to her when he'd returned. Gone was the laughing, teasing young maiden who'd been so vibrantly alive. Sadistically broken and forever silenced. Her death hadn't come easy. And for no bloody frigging good reason. Her murder had been an act of bitter, senseless violence. Adam had done his fair share of killing in that lawless time, but for reasons.

Always for reasons. Never just for the pleasure of it.