Kiss of the Highlander

He tossed her a flirtatious grin over his shoulder.

Gwen’s spirits lifted a few blocks from the café, buoyed by the tantalizing aroma of fresh-ground coffee beans wafting on a gentle breeze. In a matter of moments she would be ordering cappuccino and chocolate bread. Cranberry-and-orange scones. Gwen released a heartfelt sigh of pleasure as they entered the café.

“Lass, there are so many people,” Drustan said uneasily. “Does the entirety of this village belong to one laird?”

Gwen glanced at him and decided she should have gone with the white T-shirt, because Drustan MacKeltar, clad from head to toe in unbroken black, was, as her girlfriend Beth would say, just downright fuckable. She was still experiencing shivers of resonance from their kiss that were never going to stop unless she quit looking at him, so she glanced hastily around the shop. Families with children, seniors, and young couples—mostly tourists—were seated at dozens of small tables. “No, they’re probably all from different families.”

“And they’re peaceable? All these different clans eat together and are happy about it?” he exclaimed, at sufficient volume that several people turned to look at them.

“Shh…you’re drawing attention to us.”

“I always draw attention. Even more so in this time. Wee little folks, the lot of you.”

She glared at him. “Just be quiet, behave, and let me order.”

“I am being have,” he muttered, then moved away to gawk at the shiny silver machines grinding and perking and steaming.

Being have, with a long A? His command of language baffled her. But then she thought about it a moment: be good—being good; be quiet—being quiet; behave—being have. There was an unsettling consistency to his madness. What was it Newton had said? I can calculate the motion of heavenly bodies but not the madness of people.

While Gwen ordered, Drustan circled the interior of the coffee shop, missing nothing. He seemed fascinated by everything, picking up stainless-steel mugs, turning them around and upside down, sniffing the bags of coffee beans, poking at the straws and napkins. Then he found the spices. She caught up with him at the condiment stand just as he was slipping the little jars of cinnamon and chocolate in the pocket of his running pants.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, removing the lids from their coffee. She angled her back so the patrons of the café couldn’t see that he was breaking the law. “Take those out of your pocket!”

He scoffed. “These are valuable spices.”

“You would steal?”

“Nay, I’m no thief. But this is cinnamon and cocoa. ’Tis not so easy to come by, we’re nearly out, and Silvan loves it.”

“But it’s not yours,” she said, trying to be patient.

“I am the MacKeltar,” he said, clearly trying to be patient. “Everything is mine.”

“Put them back.”

His grin was pure male challenge. “You put them back.”

“I am not rooting around in your pockets.”

“Then they stay where they are.”

“You are so stubborn.”

“I am? I? Woman who insists everything be her way?” He fisted his hands at his waist and shifted his voice into a higher octave, imitating her: “You must wear hard white shoes. You must remove your weapons. You must travel in a car. You must not kiss me even though I wrap my legs around you when you do.” Shrugging irritably, he reverted to his deep brogue. “Must must must. I weary of that word.”

Cheeks flaming over the jibe about her unruly legs, Gwen thrust her hand in his pocket and closed her fingers around the small glass bottles.

“Silvan will be most unhappy,” he said, stepping closer with a wolfish smile.

“Silvan died five centuries ago, according to you.” The moment she said the words, she regretted them. A flash of pain crossed his face, and she could have kicked herself for being so callous. If he was ill, he might genuinely believe everything he was telling her, and if so, the death of his “father”—real or imagined—would hurt him.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. She sprinkled cinnamon on their frothy cappuccinos. Then, to atone for her unkind words, she slipped the bottle back in his pocket, trying to ignore the dually disturbing facts that she was aiding and abetting a criminal and that she was so close to his “sock,” which rhymed nicely with cock, and oh, it had been an eyeful in those jeans.

Angrily, he plunged his hand into his pocket, pulled both bottles out, and plunked them on the little condiment stand. Without a word, he turned his back to her and stalked out the door.