Maiden in Manhattan

by Abbie Zanders

  Chapter 6

  Nick was reminded of his youth as he rose slowly from the depths of perfect slumber. Feeling incredibly warm and comfortable, with none of the usual aches and pains, he felt almost weightless. For those few moments, it was as if all was right with his world. There was no grogginess, no dread in facing his day, no stress over yet another poor night’s sleep or worry over his job or Gloria or anything else for that matter. It was as if it had all been sucked away, leaving him pleasantly content and almost ... happy.

  What the hell?

  A soft female sigh and the sensation of slight movement along the length of his body immediately launched him from his exquisite lassitude into hyper awareness.

  His hand ventured forth in stealthy exploration, mapping out soft, full curves. Not Gloria, his brain instantly announced. His cock stood straight up and bobbed beneath his loose pajama bottoms, and in his mind Nick heard the very clear message from his groin: I could have told you that.

  He was hard. No, that wasn’t quite accurate. He was industrial-grade, granite hard. With his other hand – the one currently not overflowing with lush ripe female flesh – he touched himself lightly. Even that slight contact nearly had him howling with desperate, visceral need.

  Moist breath blew across his chest, along with another shift that had his balls getting in on the act, too. He couldn’t remember waking up this jacked-up, all hot need and aching lust. Who the hell -

  Isobeille.

  Nick extracted himself as quickly and quietly as possible, his body protesting all the way. As he tucked the blanket around her, she turned, reaching for him.

  “Nick,” she murmured in her sleep, her voice husky and sounding almost as needy as he felt.

  “Sssshhh,” he said in a hushed (and slightly panicked) whisper. “I’m here. Go back to sleep.”

  She sighed and snuggled into the couch, gripping the small throw pillow like a lifeline. Nick watched, afraid to breathe, until her features relaxed and she fell back into slumber. Then he made a beeline for his bathroom.

  Feeling like an adolescent, he snapped the lock on the door into place even as he dropped his PJ’s. Throwing his head back, he bit his bottom lip and gave one, two, three hard pulls before he exploded.

  It should have helped. It didn’t. Only after another round and a really, really cold shower did he successfully manage to get himself to the point where he could safely zip up his jeans. As he leaned his head against the door and summoned the courage to emerge and face his guest, there were only three words capable of accurately describing his frame of mind: What. The. Fuck.

  * * *

  Isobeille awoke in a nest of comfort: soft, cushiony pillows beside and below her, thick fluffy material all around her. It was nothing like her thin straw mattress and coarse animal hair blanket back home.

  Nor did she awaken cold and stiff as she normally did. She was cocooned in warmth, and even when she cast off the coverings, the chill blast she had expected did not come. As her feet hit the floor, her toes curled into plush fibers, not the hard dirt and stone to which she was accustomed.

  “Good morning.” The warm male voice curled around her. Even slightly rough as it was, it was infinitely smoother than her father’s whiskey-ravaged tones. Deep and resonant, it instantly soothed her, made her feel safe and protected.

  Nick.

  “A good morn te ye, as weel,” she replied as she stretched.

  “Sleep well?”

  “Aye, verra. I cannae remember when I have slept quite so weel and deep.”

  For the first time in a long time, she had not spent the night hovering on the edge of slumber, awaiting even the slightest indication that her father was returning drunk and of a mind to remind her of what her very existence had cost him. Nor had there been any of the nightmares that normally plagued her when her body became so exhausted she had no other choice but to give in to the pull of sleep.

  Isobeille padded into the kitchen area and eased up onto one of the two stools set against the small breakfast counter. Nick wore the same kind of pants she’d seen him in the night before, but these were slightly more faded and clung to his form a bit more than the others, offering her a fine view of his muscular thighs and well-sculpted behind. Only when the sudden and unexpected heat began blooming in her core did she realize she been ogling him and forced her eyes elsewhere.

  Unfortunately, perusing the rest of him did nothing to assuage her attraction. His feet were bare, and the heavy flannel shirt he wore only accentuated his broad back and shoulders. Dark hair, damp from his shower, curled slightly at the ends, drew her attention to the dark shadow along his jawline. He was, quite simply, the handsomest man she had ever seen. She added that to the list of characteristics she had assigned him in her mind, having already come to the conclusion that he was the nicest, the kindest, and the most generous. She would do best to guard her heart, she realized, for it was already trying to slip away.

  “Well, travelling six hundred years through time will do that to you,” he said, turning to smile at her over his shoulder.

  Whether it was the words he spoke or the smile he gave her, Isobeille felt her heart squeeze with hope. Squashing down her personal feelings toward her bonnie rescuer, she concentrated on his latest words instead.

  “Ye believe me?” Isobeille had been afraid that after some rest and a chance to think upon her tale, he might just decide she was thoroughly daft after all.

  “Aye. I mean, yes,” he grinned. “Are you hungry?”

  Delicious aromas filled the air around her; not all were from the meal he was preparing. “I shouldnae be after making such a right pig of myself yestereve, but aye.”

  “Good, because I made way more than I can eat myself. Do you want some coffee?”

  “Aye.” She had no idea what coffee was, but if Nick thought she should have some, she would trust his judgment. He moved around the kitchen comfortably, pouring a dark liquid into a cup and placing it before her.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked.

  Isobeille realized she had been staring and turned her attention to the small, ceramic mug before her.

  “I have never known a mon te do for himself when there is a woman te do for him.” She sipped the coffee and scrunched up her nose at the bitter taste.

  “Things are different in my world.” He added generous amounts of cream and sugar to her coffee, then pointed to it. “Try it now.”

  She lifted the cup and took another sip. This time she smiled. “Aye, they are at that.”

  * * *

  Nick wasn’t sure if he should be insulted by her generalized comments about men and their self-reliance issues or not. Then he took one look at her guileless face and determined that Isobeille probably didn’t even know how to be insulting.

  And thank God she’d moved away from the window. When she’d stretched like that and the sun had shone through his worn jersey, revealing the outline of all those curves that had been pressed against him last night... well, for a few minutes there, he thought he was going to have to excuse himself. He was definitely going to find her something heavier for her to wear tonight if he was to have any hope of retaining his sanity.

  Which was something they needed to discuss.

  Over plates of pancakes, maple syrup, and bacon, Nick broached the subject. “I’ve been giving it a lot of thought, and I think you should stay here. At least until we come up with a better plan.” He sipped his coffee, closely watching her reaction.

  If his gaze hadn’t been so fixed on her, he might have missed the brief but brilliant flash of hope in her eyes before she managed to mask it. It bothered him a little that she felt the need to do so, but given all that she had revealed the night before, he couldn’t really blame her, either.

  Isobeille set her fork down gently and dabbed at her lips with the napkin. Medieval she might be, but her table manners were impeccable. “Ye are verra kind, Nick, but ye have done so much already.”

  He hadn�
��t been kidding when he said he’d been giving the matter a lot of thought. That had been practically all he’d been able to think about since his early morning rise-and-jack routine. Something about this woman was messing with all of his circuits, but it was his common sense and his libido that seemed most affected at present.

  He had debated both sides as he showered, dressed, and watched her sleep before deciding to make breakfast. The practical, realistic side of him noted that he had done his good deed, and had satisfied his sense of common decency and his innate human compassion. He should be taking the next logical step, which would be to get her out of his place and somewhere where she could move on (with help, of course).

  The impractical and illogical side of him crossed its arms and pouted at that idea. It didn’t want Isobeille to go. Despite the near-certain trouble it would bring him, he liked having her around. Of course, these selfish thoughts were wrapped up and neatly hidden beneath various layers of rationalizations for why it really was in her best interest to stay here with him.

  “It’s not like you have a lot of options, Isobeille. I mean, where else would you go?”

  The effect was instantaneous. Isobeille stiffened and sat up a little straighter, followed by the now-familiar defiant tilt to her chin, the one she effected every time he said something that ruffled her feathers. He was no psychologist, but he could guess that it probably had something to do with the fact that her whole life had been a series of limited options.

  “I could go te one of those shelters ye told me aboot.”

  Nick was shaking his head before she even finished getting the words out. Sweet, innocent Isobeille in a place like that, with drug addicts and indigents and prostitutes? Not happening, not if he had anything to say about it.

  And he had plenty to say.

  “I’ve been thinking about that, too. I don’t think that’s a good idea. They’ll ask you all kinds of questions, and if you tell them what you told me, they’ll put you in a psych ward somewhere. No, you’re better off here with me till we can figure something out.”

  “Psych ward?”

  “Crazy house. Looney bin. Insane asylum. Just because I believe you doesn’t mean anyone else will.”

  She paled visibly. Nick didn’t like scaring her, but she had to understand what she would face if she decided to strike out on her own. “At the very least, they’ll assume you’re some kind of illegal alien and have you deported.”

  “Deported?”

  “Shipped out of the country. Besides, you have no identification, no money, no - ”

  “I have money,” she interrupted.

  “What?”

  “Money. I assume ye mean coin? Aye, I have some.” She disappeared into the back, returning with her dress. Reaching into a hidden inner pocket, she first extracted the two twenties he’d handed her the night before, then a small pouch. She tipped the small goatskin bag over the table, sending several gleaming, roughly circular items clattering onto the surface.

  Nick looked down at the slightly-irregular objects. He picked up one with a silvery-gray color; it felt surprisingly heavy in his hand. One side held the engraved profile of a king holding a scepter; the other, a long cross with some writing and symbols he didn’t recognize.

  * * *

  “My dowry,” Isobeille said, embarrassed by the small amount, knowing it was not enough to tempt any but the poorest of men. “I took te hiding it so my father wouldnae squander it on drinking and whoring.”

  An unreadable expression crossed his face. Isobeille did not know if it was due to her raw words or the realization that he held ancient currency in his hand. Mayhap it was a bit of both.

  “As cool as this is, it’s not going to buy you much as is. I bet a museum would probably pay good money to get their hands on these – Christ, they’re in mint condition – but you can’t just walk in there with a bag of them. They’d want to know where you’d gotten them, and you can’t exactly tell them, can you?”

  Isobeille’s last hope drained away as the truth of his words sank in. He was right, of course, but it seemed terribly cruel to come this far, to be so close to realizing her dream of having the freedom to make her own choices, only to discover that she was really not very close at all. In a way, she was even farther away than she had been in Gwynnevael. She knew not enough of the customs of this complicated society to do anything on her own. Without Nick’s aid, she was all but helpless.

  “Are you in such a hurry to leave, Isobeille?” Nick asked quietly. Something in his voice broke through her haze of self-pity. He almost sounded hurt.

  “Nay, I like it here,” she said honestly. “’Tis warm and dry and ye are a verra nice mon. But I doona wish te be a burden te ye. Ye have yer own life.”

  Isobeille ignored the pang of regret that sliced through her, feeling somewhat ashamed for coveting more when she had already been given such a wondrous gift. Nick had a job and a life and had chosen a woman for himself. And as nice as Nick was, she had the distinct impression that her very presence made him uneasy sometimes.

  “Let me worry about that, will you? Besides,” he said with a wink that had her heart stuttering in her chest, “this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. How many men can say they’ve gotten the chance to spend time with a six-hundred-plus-year-old Scottish maiden?”

  Isobeille smiled but quickly cast her eyes downward lest he see the tears that had begun to pool there. She had spoken the truth, but naught all of it. She had not admitted that leaving was the very last thing she wanted to do. Nor had she revealed that even now, she feared her heart had chosen him as the one it wanted, despite the fact that he belonged to another.

  Sharing those insights would serve no favorable purpose. At best, they might make things awkward between them. Isobeille had never felt such an instantaneous and comfortable connection with anyone the way she had with Nick. Ruining that would be even worse than having to face this new world on her own.

  At worst, he might come to the same conclusion that her father had – that she was naught but an unwelcome, ungrateful responsibility that he would be glad to get rid of as quickly as possible. Isobeille did not think she could bear it if Nick ever looked at her that way.

  With that in mind, she locked those dangerous thoughts deep inside the recesses of her heart and mind. Instead, she would focus on her blessings. She would be grateful for what she had, and would not permit the deadly sins of either envy or jealousy to ruin whatever time she had with him. And she would continually remind herself that his desire to have her remain under his protective wing for a while longer was because he was a kind, compassionate, caring man – and not because of requited romantic feelings.

  * * *

  They finished breakfast and cleaned up together in a companionable silence. Nick was glad for it. After addressing the elephant in the room – namely, Isobeille’s immediate future - it was nice to just spend time together, enjoying each other’s company and doing ordinary things.

  He couldn’t help wondering, though, if Isobeille was as relieved as he was that she would be staying with him for a while longer. He thought she was, but reading people – especially women – was not his forte. All he had to do was look back at the week before Thanksgiving to remind himself of that.

  So instead of trying to figure out what Isobeille was thinking, he opted to focus on what she had actually said. Two things, in particular. One, Isobeille liked it here, and two, she liked him. As far as he was concerned, everything else was superfluous.

  Beyond that, Nick couldn’t help but feel that he had just avoided a major crisis in convincing Isobeille to stay with him a while longer. The question was, why?

  Yes, he was genuinely concerned about Isobeille. She might be a grown woman, but in many ways she was like a child – incredibly naïve and knowing very little about her new world. He would have to be a cruel, heartless bastard to turn her out, wouldn’t he?

  Having her stay for a while – at least until they figured something out –
might ease his conscience, but it would create some challenges as well, not the least of which was figuring out how to explain her to his girlfriend.

  First things first, though. He needed to find her something else to wear. The dress she had “arrived” in was way too conspicuous, Gloria’s stuff didn’t fit (at least not well enough to wear in public without inciting a riot), and seeing her in his clothes was having some serious side effects that he’d just as soon not think too deeply upon.

  Chapter 7

  “Yo, Carlos, you have a couple of sisters, right?” Nick held the phone to his ear, smiling to himself as he watched Isobeille try to work his remote, waving it warily at the flat screen as if it might turn around and bite her. She must have seen him turn it on earlier to catch the weather and latest scores.

  “Fuck off, man,” Carlos said with no little affection. “You might be my partner, but that won’t stop me from killing you if you even think about hitting on one of my sisters, no matter how cute they think you are. What, is Gloria cutting you off again?”

  Yes, she was, but that seemed the least of his problems at the moment. “Don’t be a dick. I need some women’s clothes.”

  “You don’t strike me as the cross-dressing type,” Carlos chuckled. “You holding out on me, bro?”

  “Fuck you. I’m just... helping somebody out.”

  Carlos was quiet for a moment. Nick knew he was connecting the dots. They’d been partners long enough for Carlos to know Nick’s penchant for helping others. He’d often commented that Nick had a heart the size of Texas, though it wasn’t always spoken as a compliment.

  “Please tell me she’s legal.”

  Considering the fact that Isobeille had been born somewhere around 1390, Nick figured that qualified as legal. “Yeah, man. And at the risk of repeating myself, fuck you. You going to help me out or not?”

  Carlos answered with a long suffering sigh. Though he wouldn’t openly admit it, he was every bit as much of a sucker for a damsel in distress as Nick was. It was one of the many reasons they’d hit it off so well from day one.