Kiss of the Highlander

It intrigued him—that she’d neither screamed, nor fainted, nor pleaded for release. His first impression of her had not been entirely accurate; although it was difficult to discern, what with her strange manner of speaking, she did possess a dash of intelligence. She’d demonstrated fine reasoning abilities while trying to talk him out of taking her along, and when she’d realized there was no possibility of him relenting, she’d treated him as if he simply didn’t exist. Bravo, Gwen, he thought. Cassidy is Irish for clever. Gwendolyn means goddess of the moon. Quite a fascinating lass you’re turning out to be.

Whereas initially he’d thought her an orphan or survivor of a clan massacre, a woman willing to barter her body to secure a protector—thus explaining her clothing and demeanor—it had since occurred to him that she might simply be typical of her time. Mayhap in five centuries women had changed this much, become tenaciously independent. Then why, he wondered, did he sense a silent sadness, a brush of vulnerability in her that belied her bravado?

He knew she thought that he’d dragged her off because he desired her, and would that it were that simple. There was no denying that he found her mesmerizing and was impatient to bed her, but things were suddenly much more complicated. Once he’d discovered he was stranded in the future, he’d realized he needed her. When they arrived at the stones—if the worst was true and his castle was gone—there was a ritual he must perform, his conscience be damned. There was a possibility the ritual would go wrong, and if that happened, he needed Gwen Cassidy standing by his side.

She was growing weary, and he felt a pang of regret for causing her distress. When she stumbled over a tree root and fell against him, only to hiss and jerk away, he softened. He would give her this one night, for after tomorrow there would be no stopping. She nearly fell where she stood, so he cupped one arm behind her shoulders, the other behind her knees, and deposited her on the mossy trunk of an enormous tree that had fallen to the floor of the forest. Perched upon the massive trunk, with her feet dangling several inches above the ground, she looked wee and delicate. Warrior hearts did not always come in warrior-strong bodies, and although he could hike three days without rest or food, she would not fare well under such conditions.

He boosted himself up onto the trunk beside her.

“Gwen,” he said gently.

There was no response.

“Gwen, I truly will not harm you,” he said.

“You already have,” she retorted.

“You’re speaking to me again?”

“I’m chained to you. I had planned to never speak to you again, but I’ve decided that I don’t feel like making things easy for you, so I’m going to tell you incessantly and in vivid detail precisely how miserable I am. I’m going to stuff your ears with my shrill complaints. I’m going to make you wish you’d lost your hearing when you were born.”

He laughed. This was his scornful English again. “You are free to torment me at every opportunity. I regret causing you discomfort, but I must. I have no choice.”

She arched one brow and regarded him with disdain. “Let me be certain I understand this situation. You think you are from the sixteenth century. What year, exactly?”

“Fifteen hundred and eighteen.”

“And in fifteen hundred and eighteen, you lived somewhere near here?”

“Aye.”

“And you were a lord?”

“Aye.”

“And how is it that you ended up sleeping in a cave in the twenty-first century?”

“That is what I must discover.”

“MacKeltar, it’s impossible. You seem relatively sane to me, this delusion excluded. A bit chauvinistic, but not too abnormal. There is no way a man can fall asleep and wake up nearly five centuries later. Physiologically, it’s impossible. I’ve heard of Rip Van Winkle and Sleeping Beauty, but those are fairy tales.”

“I doubt the fairy had aught to do with it. I suspect gypsies or witchcraft,” he confided.

“Oh, now, that’s infinitely reassuring,” she said, too sweetly. “Thank you for clarifying that.”

“Do you mock me?”

“Do you believe in fairies?” she countered.

“Fairy is merely another name for the Tuatha de Danaan. And yes, they exist, although they keep their distance from mortal man. We Scots have always known that. You have lived a sheltered life, have you not?” When she closed her eyes, he smiled. She was so naive.

She opened her eyes, favored him with a patronizing smile, and changed the subject as if not wont to press his fragile mind too hard. He bit his lip to prevent a derisive snort. At least she was talking to him again.