Would the Keltar, like Gabrielle, be reluctant to trust him? Reluctant to do what he needed them to do, or rather, not do?
Rubbing his jaw, he stared out the window of the rental car, forcing himself to put aside thoughts of whether those two would welcome or revile him—what mattered was that they’d crossed the queen’s wards several leagues back, and Gabrielle was now on protected ground—he’d deal with whatever else came to pass. He’d spent most of the time in transit over the ocean mentally kicking his own ass for what had happened in Atlanta: Because he’d been so selfishly intent on seducing her, on binding her to him, he’d imperiled her life. Stupid, smug bastard; you’re not invincible anymore.
Rather than winning her, he could have lost his Sidhe-seer in that hotel room forever. Her fragile, precious life could have been snuffed out, freeing her soul to go places he could never follow, not even with all his powers restored. Merely thinking about it made his human body start knotting up all over again. Bad thing about being human and having so much muscle was that all that muscle could get tense. He’d gotten his first headache on the plane. He had no desire to get another one. Ever. Nor did he appreciate the sick feeling in his stomach no quantity of food had managed to assuage. Nothing but holding her tightly had seemed to help.
Exhaling slowly, he forced his attention outward, to the countryside, a vista of which he never tired.
At that moment, the car veered sharply to the left, then back just as sharply, and Adam bit back a smile, knowing she’d probably hit him if she saw it. Gabrielle had insisted on driving (if one could call it that) when they’d acquired the cramped, compact rental vehicle, arguing that the effects of the féth fiada enshrouding him might cause accidents were he to drive. Unaccustomed, however, to driving on the “wrong” side of the car, on the “wrong” side of the road, she was having a time of it.
For heaven’s sake, if the sheep would just stop catapulting themselves onto the road, I might have a chance! she’d snapped the last time he’d laughed. They come out of nowhere, like they’re dropping from the sky.
Poppycock. Sheep trundle. Slow as snails. If you’d quit rubbernecking, trying to look everywhere at once, you’d see them coming, he’d teased. By Danu, he adored her fine-featured face, the expressions that flitted across it, her temperament. She had an inner fire that begged provoking, just for the pleasure of watching it burn.
Right. I’m supposed to drive past Loch Ness and not look at it? What if Nessie pops her head up and I miss it? You’ve been around for thousands of years. I’ve never been to Scotland. They should keep the damned sheep off the road. Put up fences. Why are there no fences in Scotland? Don’t they believe in protecting the tourists? And what’s wrong with two-lane roads? Have they never heard of two-lane roads?
If it’s not two lanes, ka-lyrra, how are you having such a hard time staying on your side of it?
She’d bared her teeth in a ferocious little scowl and he’d had to bite the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing. Or dragging her into his arms and kissing her, which would have certainly resulted in a wreck.
Okay, one and a half lanes, she’d begrudged irritably. I’m trying to stay on my three-quarters of a lane of it.
And with a haughty glare, she’d promptly gone back to trying to look everywhere, while avoiding sheep and driving wrong-sided twice-over, spending more time off the road than on.
And he was back to trying not to laugh.
He relished her reaction to the land he’d long loved best, far more than Ireland, perhaps more even than anyplace on all of Danu. He could give it no rhyme or reason, Scotland and her people just did something to him. Always had. If Gabrielle’s inability to keep her eyes (and the car) on the road was any indication, Scotland was exerting the same ineffable pull on her too.
And how could it not? Late summer was breathtaking in the Highlands, the hills dappled with the colors of the waning season: the deep reddish-purple of bell heather, the pale pink cross-leaved heath, the heart-shaped silver heads of sillar shakles. It would be a few weeks yet before ling and heather truly began to paint entire hillsides with their purple-pink haze, and he found himself hoping they’d still be there to see it.
He’d like to see Gabrielle running through a field of heather; he’d like to strip her naked and push her down in it and have his wicked way with her.
And he would, he promised himself. Soon. Now that she was safe.
It wouldn’t be long before they were at the Castle Keltar. The lights of Inverness were even now fading away in his side-view mirror.