When she’d sorted through his slides, her wonder at their diversity had slowed her task. Though he seemed focused on wildlife and landscapes in the mountains, he didn’t limit himself to one subject matter. She’d found city scenes, people, animals, experimental uses of light that turned everything into streaks and surreal impressions, like looking at an alternative world, layered over this one.
He combined subject matter in a disturbing way. She’d used a small, battery-operated projector to examine the slides on a larger scale, and found one of Niall, asleep in a field like this. However, the field had been overlaid with another picture, lifeless bodies, broken and bloody, the aftermath of a battle. The overlay had been arranged so the bodies cut a wide, noticeable circle around Niall, underscoring the contrast of his peaceful sleep with their not-so-peaceful death, a permanent sleep.
The mountain lion moved off. Evan straightened. When he began making notes on the tattered pad he propped on his thigh, she returned to her picnic basket. She brought it to Niall, but he didn’t stir, so she retrieved her book and sat on the grass next to him. It was a good position to watch Evan, and she wondered if Niall had chosen it for that reason. No matter their occasional friction, there was an obvious, unbreakable tether between them.
Even in sleep, no one would mistake Niall for anything but what he was, a powerful man, sure of himself, alpha in every respect. It made sense that vampires didn’t pick unappealing or ordinary servants; a human had to be extraordinary to desire three centuries of service to a vampire. But even for all that, the link between these two was unusual.
Covering a yawn, she set the book aside. She shouldn’t be tired, but the blocker she’d taken right before coming up here gave her that irritating burst of fatigue. Today, a nap would have to count toward her two hours.
She had no desire to pillow her head on a rock, though. She considered Niall. He’d worn those serviceable cargos that clung to his thighs, creasing around his groin. His T-shirt marked out the breadth of chest well, and her fingers wanted to touch.
She wanted to lie next to him. Wanted to be close to his heat. She thought of Evan coming to lie with them, as they had done in the bed, her in between them. Vampires didn’t cuddle, not to her experience. It was an unthinkable, nonpermissible thought, on so many levels, but with Niall, it might be acceptable.
Shifting closer, then to one hip, she moved as carefully as she had to avoid startling the mountain lion. A part of her was afraid if Niall woke up she’d be in transgression of something unforgiveable. She’d never reached out to anyone for affection, closeness.
She eased down next to him. His arm was over his head, making it easy to lay her head on his shoulder, inch her body closer. Putting a hand on his chest like a butterfly landing, she pressed her cheek to his shirt and inhaled his scent.
If only our Master were here with us, she thought. It would be perfect.
What makes you think I’m not, yekirati? The response made her jump, but Niall, muttering in his sleep, put his arm around her.
What does that mean . . . yekirati? And what you said the other night . . . einayim sheli . . . My metuka.
You have a good ear for languages. Your pronunciation was almost flawless. Yekirati is “dear one.” The rest . . . einayim sheli is “my eyes,” meaning very precious to me, and metuka is “sweet.”
Very precious to me. It was a simple endearment of course, but it still warmed her to hear it. She glanced down the pleasurable terrain of Niall’s body. Evan wasn’t looking at her, was in fact still working on his notebook, but there was a light curve to his mouth.
Do you still want to know about the first time Niall and I met?
Yes. I would like that. If it wouldn’t upset Niall. She usually only thought in terms of what would offend her Master, but it felt right to qualify it, given Niall’s earlier avoidance of the subject. Can I ask something else first? About your first kiss?
Possibly. Ask, and we shall see.
You were with him awhile before that. Why . . .
Why did I wait so long? It was a monumental test of my restraint, one he has never appreciated.
Glancing up, she saw wry amusement in his gray eyes. I wanted certain things to evolve in our relationship first. Create the proper setting, lighting. I was waiting for the muse to strike.
There’s a muse for that?
There’s a muse for everything. That’s what you learn over time. Every moment is rich with art and possibility, every interaction. But patience is key. And sometimes a tough skin, especially when dealing with an irascible Scot.
Alanna smiled. When Evan lifted his head, met her gaze briefly, her lips tingled under his regard, her smile replaced by more intent, heated things.
It wasn’t until she felt a provocative flush across every inch of the skin his gaze covered that he lowered his attention to his work again. But he didn’t break the connection between them. Instead, he began to paint in her mind as well, creating the picture of his first meeting with Niall and bringing it to vivid life for her.
12
THE Scot was looking for a campsite, too far away from home to get back tonight. Evan followed his human scent to a rocky glen, a deep creek running through it. There were a few soft spots near the bank to roll up in his plaid and sleep. Evan didn’t detect a fresh kill, so it seemed the man hadn’t had any hunting luck, despite ranging so far afield. If he had caught something, he’d be on the way back home with it, no matter the distance or time of night. His family was starving, like so many others in his village, the result of failed harvests, illness and the indifference of the few who held rents over the heads of the many.
Though it was dark, Niall—Evan had learned his name during these past few weeks of watching him—wasn’t willing to give up yet. He’d apparently been trying to get a fish interested in biting, despite the cold. Evan maneuvered up into the cradle of a tree overlooking the glen, a good perch to watch the desperation mount on his face. Niall was a big man, even though he was barely past twenty.
“Well, piss on ye, then,” the Scot snarled, leaping up from the bank and throwing his fishing gear away from him. “If ye cannae provide me any help, maybe the Devil is listening.” He shouted out a few more things in Gaelic. It was probably a good thing Evan was here, because no telling when English dragoons might be on a patrol. They’d cut down a strapping male like this no questions asked, assuming right off he was a Jacobite.
Unlike many of his fellow villagers, Niall was no Jacobite. But he didn’t support the current English rule, either. Evan had been in the village shadows the night of a community bonfire, when talk had led to politics and hunger, matters closely linked for men trying to care for their families. Pushed a little too hard for his viewpoint, Niall had tartly remarked that not all Scottish problems were to be laid at English feet. “Our landlords can take their fair share of the blame. Ye dinnae need tae English to starve and beat us down, when the sons of the auld clan chiefs will do it.”
Like most of them, Niall and his family worked their rocky land and scraped together what living they could to barely cover the rents on their crofts. But unlike most, he had a keener grasp of where to lay the blame. It wasn’t the first time Evan had been impressed by the man’s intelligence.
Though most didn’t see the appeal of the rocky Scottish terrain, Evan saw a harsh beauty in the unforgiving land. He saw the same in the grooves of the young Scot’s face. In the privacy of this glen where Niall didn’t have to put on a brave face for kin or stranger, Evan watched the rage and frustration build into sorrow, helpless incomprehension . . . Every emotion strong men experienced when they confronted a terrible possibility: that scraping on the edge of survival was likely the most they would ever be able to do, for themselves or their families.
Many in his village had already accepted that. Evan had seen the hopeless resignation in their faces. Niall didn’t know what that was. No matter what the morrow brought, he wouldn’t come home to his family empty-handed, even if he had to cut up a dragoon and call his edible parts venison. Evan would lay money on it.
Ripping off his plaid and ragged shirt with another oath, Niall discarded his worn boots and plunged into water that Evan knew had to be frigid. The man disappeared beneath the surface. With his vampire hearing, Evan could hear him screaming his rage. Perhaps he’d become mindful of an English threat. Or, in the slim hope that a higher power might help him, he’d tried to at least muffle his invective toward it.
He shot back up, water sluicing off the broad chest and wide shoulders, his hair whipping back like an angry lash as he tossed it out of his flashing eyes. When Niall slogged back to the water’s edge, his jaw showed granite resolve.
“Bollocks on all of it,” he spat. Then he froze, his gaze snapping up to pin Evan where he perched in the crotch of the tree.
Remarkable. He hadn’t given away his position with even a twitch. Dropping to the ground from the ten-foot height, light as a cat, he moved toward the water. Niall’s attention went to whatever he could use as a weapon, but they both knew it was too late if Evan had a pistol or sword and was any good with either. Evan could have told him he meant him no harm, but he had other priorities. Making them clear, he stopped and gave the Scot a thorough perusal.
Skin of pale marble, bluish from cold. Though he needed feeding, his knotted muscles were ropes along his arms and thighs, his chest powerful and deep, the stomach a hard plane that arrowed down to his pubic region. The water lapped at the snarl of dark silky hair, revealing a hint of thick cock. He was half turned, so the slice of taut backside gave Evan all sorts of inspiration. But the young man’s reaction was the real gem.
His initial wariness gave way to an equally intent scrutiny, aware of how Evan was looking at him. What he was thinking, wanting. The man’s lip curled, but it wasn’t derision. It was angry challenge.
Having no desire to soil good linen, Evan pulled off his shirt. It showed the Scot he carried no weapons of merit, an odd thing for a man alone, but Evan wasn’t introducing the why of that into the conversation. Producing his knife from its scabbard, he tossed it aside so it lodged in the ground next to his shirt.