The Highlander's Touch

“Will you pretend to be cousin to the Bruce, as I told my men?” he said gravely.

“Will you promise that if there is a way for me to get back home, you’ll let me go? Alive,” she added, stressing the word.

“Say ‘aye’ first, lass,” he demanded.

Lisa held her breath for a moment, looking at him. She had little choice but to pledge this bizarre truce to him. If she tried to back out now, she suspected they’d be fighting again in a matter of moments. “Aye,” she mimicked his accent.

He studied her, as if measuring the depth of her honesty and commitment to her words. “Then aye, lass. If a way can be found to return you, I will help you do it.” The corner of his mouth twitched in a strangely bitter smile. “It will get you the hell out of my life and my compromised integrity,” he added softly, more to himself than to her.

“Truce,” she accepted. Integrity, she jotted in her mental file of significant facts about Circenn Brodie. It was important to him. She experienced a flash of hope: The precise knightly characteristics that might drive him to fulfill his oath—which included integrity, honor, protection of those weaker than he, and respect and chivalry toward women—could also be prevailed upon to prevent him from doing it. Killing a helpless woman would surely not be easy for him. She knew that sealing an agreement was no small matter to a knight, so she extended her hand for the seal of a handshake, not realizing how thoroughly modern-day the gesture was.

He eyed it for a moment, took it, then pressed it to his lips and kissed it.

Lisa snatched back her hand with a scowl. Heat tingled where his lips had brushed her skin.

“You offered it,” he snapped.

“That wasn’t what I—oh, forget it,” Lisa floundered, then explained, “We don’t kiss hands in my time—”

“But we are not in your time. You are in my time now, lass. I cannot stress enough how important it is for you to remember that, at all times.” His voice was low, his words clipped as if he were irritated by her response. “And so there are no further misunderstandings between us, I will explain: Should you offer me a part of your body, lass, I will kiss it. That is what men in my century do.” His smile was mocking, couching a none-too-subtle challenge.

Lisa folded her hands behind her back. “I understand,” she said, casting her gaze to the floor in a deceptively submissive manner.

He waited for a moment as if not quite trusting her acquiescence, but when she didn’t raise her eyes again, he turned toward the door. “Good. Now we need to find you decent clothing and teach you how to be a proper fourteenth-century lass. The better you blend in, the less risk you will face, and the less risky your presence will be for me.”

“I will not empty chamber pots,” she said firmly.

He looked at her as if she’d lost her mind.

* * *

Circenn returned Lisa to his chambers, had hot water sent up for her to wash with, then went off in search of clothing for her. Chamber pots, indeed. Did she think they were so barbaric that they did not have garderobes? Chamber pots were used only for nocturnal emergencies, primarily by children and the infirm, and in his opinion there was no reason why anyone could not manage to make it down the hallway, unless they were possessed of extreme laziness and lack of discipline.

He snorted, focusing his mind on the task at hand. He couldn’t give her run of the keep until he’d managed to hide some of those curves and long legs beneath the ugliest gown he could find. His men needed no distractions. He gathered the maids and instructed them to procure a gown, all the while brooding over what to do with her.

When he’d questioned Lisa last night, he’d nearly begun to believe she was innocent. She had a disarming air about her, an attitude of sincerity. He’d relaxed a bit, even glimpsed a wry humor in their conversation. Then she’d admitted that she was from the future, and he’d realized that his curse had inadvertently carried her through time.

Although it had stunned him, it made sense: Her strange English, her odd clothing, her mention of countries of which he’d never heard, all were explained by her being from the future. He could certainly understand her people fleeing England, he thought wryly—who wouldn’t want to? It didn’t surprise him that in the future, England was still trying to control everyone.

He laughed softly, thinking that she didn’t know how lucky she was that she’d been brought to him and not some other medieval lord. Circenn accepted time travel, but he was an extreme exception. Any other laird would have burned her for a witch. But then again, he thought dryly, no other laird would have had the power to curse the damned flask to begin with.