To Love a Highland Dragon

by Ann Gimpel

  He detached the last thorn, finally clear of the thicket of sticker bushes. Where could he find a market with vendors? Did market day even still exist in this strange environment?

  “Holy crap! A kilt, and an old-fashioned one at that. Tad bit early in the day for a costume ball, isn’t it?” A rich female voice laced with amusement, sounded behind him.

  Lachlan spun, hands raised to call magic. He stopped dead once his gaze settled on a lass nearly as tall as himself, which meant she was close to six feet. She turned so she faced him squarely. Bare legs emerged from torn fabric that stopped just south of her female parts. Full breasts strained against scraps of material attached to strings tied around her neck and back. Her feet were encased in a few straps of leather. Long, blonde hair eddied around her, the color of sheaves of summer wheat.

  His cock jumped to attention. His hands itched to make a grab for her breasts or her ass. She had an amazing ass: round and high and tight. What was expected of him? The lass was dressed in such a way as to invite him to simply tear what passed for breeks aside and enter her. Had times changed so drastically that women provoked men into public sex? He glanced about, half expecting to see couples having it off with one another willy-nilly.

  “Well,” she urged. “Cat got your tongue?” She placed her hands on her hips. The motion stretched the tiny bits of flowered fabric that barely covered her nipples still further.

  Lachlan bowed formally, straightened, and waited for her to hold out a hand for him to kiss. “I am Lachlan Moncrieffe, my lady. It is a pleasure to—”

  She erupted into laughter—and didn’t hold out her hand. “I’m Maggie,” she managed between gouts of mirth. “What are you? A throwback to medieval times? You can drop the Sir Galahad routine.”

  Lachlan felt his face heat. “I fear I do not understand the cause of your merriment … my lady.”

  Maggie rolled her midnight blue eyes. “Oh, brother. Did you escape from a mental hospital? Nah, you’d be in pajamas then, not those fancy duds.” She dropped her hands to her sides and started to walk past him.

  “No. Wait. Please, wait.” Lachlan cringed at the whining tone in his voice. The dragon was correct that the Moncrieffe was a proud house. They bowed to no one.

  She eyed him askance. “What?”

  “I am a stranger in this town.” He winced at the lie. Once upon a time, he’d been master of these lands. Apparently that time had long since passed. “I am footsore and hungry. Where might I find victuals and ale?”

  Her eyes widened. Finely arched blonde brows drew together over a straight nose dotted by a few freckles. “Victuals and ale,” she repeated disbelievingly.

  “Aye. Food and drink, in the common vernacular.”

  “Oh, I understood you well enough,” Maggie murmured. “Your words, anyway. Your accent’s a bit off.” His stomach growled again, embarrassingly loud. “Guess you weren’t kidding about being hungry.” She eyed him appraisingly. “Do you have any money?”

  Money. Too late he thought of the piles of gold coins and priceless gems lying on the floor of Kheladin’s cave. In the world he’d left, his word had been as good as his gold. He opened his mouth, but she waved him to silence. “I’ll stand you for a pint and some fish and chips. You can treat me next time.”

  He heard her mutter, “Yeah right,” under her breath as she curled a hand around his arm and tugged. “Come on. I have a couple of hours and then I’ve got to go to work. I’m due in at three today.”

  Lachlan trotted along next to her. She let go of him like he was a viper when he tried to close a hand over the one she’d laid so casually on his person. He cleared his throat and wondered what he could safely ask that wouldn’t give his secrets away. He could scarcely believe this alien landscape was Scotland, but if he asked what country they were in, or what year it was, she’d think him mad. He wondered if the black wyvern had used some diabolical dark magic to transport his cave to another locale, and then thought better of it. Even Rhukon wasn’t that powerful.

  “In here.” She pointed to a door beneath a flashing sigil. He gawked at it. One minute it was red, the next blue, the next green, illuminating the word Open. What manner of magic was this? “Don’t tell me you have temporal lobe epilepsy.” She stared at him. “It’s only a neon sign. It doesn’t bite. Move on through the door. There’s food on the other side,” she added slyly.

  Feeling like a rube, Lachlan searched for a latch, didn’t find one, and pushed his shoulder against the door. It opened, and he held it with a hand so Maggie could enter first. “After you, my lady,” he murmured.

  “Stop that.” She spoke into his ear as she went past. “No more my ladies. Got it?”

  “I think so.” He followed her into a low ceilinged room lined with wooden planks. It was the first thing that looked familiar. Parts of it, anyway. Men—kilt-less men—sat at the bar, hefting glasses and chatting. The tables were empty.

  “What’ll it be, Mags?” a man with a towel tied around his waist called from behind the bar.

  “Couple of pints and two of today’s special. Come to think of it,” she eyed Lachlan, “make that three of the special.”

  “May I inquire just what the special is?” Lachlan asked, thinking he might want to order something different.

  Maggie waved a hand at a black board suspended over the bar. “You can read?”

  “Of course.” He resented the inference he might be uneducated but swallowed back harsh words.

  “Excellent. Then move.” She shoved her body into his in a distressingly familiar way for such a communal location. Not that he wouldn’t have enjoyed the contact if they were alone and he were free to take advantage of it… “All the way to the back,” she hissed into his ear. “That way if you slip up, no one will hear.”

  He bristled. Lachlan Moncrieffe did not sit in the back of any establishment. He was always given a choice table near the center of things. He opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it.

  She scooped an armful of flattened scrolls off the bar before following him to the back of the room. Once there, she dumped them onto the table between them. He wanted to ask what they were but decided he should pretend to know. He turned the top sheaf of papers toward him and scanned the close-spaced print. Many of the words were unfamiliar, but what leapt off the page was The Inverness Courier and presumably the current date: June 10, 2012.

  It had been 1683 when Rhukon had chivied him into the dragon’s cave. Three-hundred twenty-nine years, give or take a month or two. At least he was still in Inverness—for all the good it did him.

  “You look as if you just saw a ghost.” Maggie spoke quietly.

  “No. I am quite fine. Thank you for inquiring … my, er…” His voice trailed off.

  “Good.” She nodded approvingly. “You’re learning.” The bartender slapped two mugs of ale on the scarred wooden table.

  “On your tab, Mags?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Except you owe me so much, you’ll never catch up.”

  Lachlan took a sip of what turned out to be weak ale. It wasn’t half bad but could have stood an infusion of bitters. He puzzled over what Maggie meant. Why would the barkeep owe her? His nostrils flared. She must work at the establishment—probably as a damsel of ill repute from the looks of her. Mayhap, she hadn’t been paid her share of whatever she earned in quite some time.

  Protectiveness flared deep inside him. Maggie should not have to earn her way lying on her back. He’d see to it she had a more seemly position.

  Aye, once I find my way around this bizarre new world. Money wouldn’t be a problem, but changing four-hundred-year-old gold coins into today’s tender might be. Surely there were still banks that might accomplish something like that.

  One thing at a time, he reminded himself.

  “So.” She skewered him with her blue gaze—Norse eyes if he’d ever seen a set—and took a sip from her mug. “What did you see in the newspaper that upset you so much?”

  “Nothing
.” He tried for an offhand tone.

  “Bullshit,” she said succinctly. “I’m a doctor. A psychiatrist. I read people’s faces quite well, and you look as if you’re perilously close to going into shock on me.”

  Chapter Two

  Margaret Melissa Hibbins looked appraisingly at the man seated across the table from her. She’d hesitated before speaking to him, but he exuded such a raw sexuality, she’d found it impossible not to say something. Once they’d begun talking, it had been a struggle not to drag him behind an empty building, wrap her legs around his waist, and find out what was under that kilt of his.

  Maggie tried to rein in her imagination. So what if he looked like a homeless vagabond and she hadn’t been laid in a couple of years? Lachlan was a stranger, but a damned attractive one in spite of his unkempt appearance. More important, though, he needed…something. Maybe she could help. Back down Dr. Hibbins, champion of the underdog. Yup, give me your tired, your poor… What a load of shit. He’s the best-looking man I’ve ever seen. Makes the altruism argument fly right out the window. Before she could catch herself, half a snort escaped.

  Lachlan’s head snapped up from where he’d been studying the daily rag, his lips moving as if reading were difficult for him. She shook her head. “Sorry, didn’t mean a thing by it. My imagination gets away with me.”

  He drained half the mug of ale and returned to reading the paper. She took advantage of his apparent inattention to her and looked at him carefully, starting with his unkempt tawny hair, rather like a lion’s mane. Though his eyes were downcast, she’d seen them earlier. An unusual shade of pure, deep green, they had golden flecks about the irises. High, sculpted cheekbones led to a strong jaw. What she could see of it, anyway, beneath his beard. His nose was straight; his skin a coppery gold. He hadn’t smiled, but the teeth she’d seen were very straight and very white.

  Maybe he’s not as destitute as I thought. He’s been able to afford dental care.

  Her gaze strayed lower, to broad shoulders encased in a shirt and old-style kilt where part of the material wrapped about his upper torso. A cape hung from his shoulders. The sword suspended from his slender waist looked chillingly real. Buff-colored, leather boots laced up the sides and disappeared beneath his kilt. She wanted to reach out and touch the fabric. It looked like an unbelievably fine wool, soft and thick, woven into a green and black plaid.

  The bartender sashayed over with a tray and dropped it onto their table. “Here ya go, Mags.”

  She inhaled the sharp odors of vinegar-soaked fried cod topped with crisp potatoes and smiled. “Thanks.”

  Lachlan pushed the papers to one side and reached for one of the plates. Without bothering to pick up a fork or knife, he drew a short dagger from somewhere beneath his kilt, stabbed a piece of fish, and stuffed it into his mouth whole. He chewed and swallowed. “Are ye not planning to eat?” he asked. “I should have waited for you afore beginning. I am most humbly sorry.”

  “It’s all right. You go on ahead.”

  For the next few minutes, he shoveled fish and chips into his mouth like a starving man, only slowing after the first two plates were empty. He polished the rest of his ale. “Barkeep,” he cried in a clear, ringing voice. “Another.”

  It’s almost as if he’s used to people obeying him, she mused. If there was one thing she was good at, it was dredging information out of the unwilling. It went with the territory. “Go ahead.” She gestured toward the last plate of food. “I’m not especially hungry. There’s always food at the hospital.”

  “You said you’re a stranger. Where are you from?” She kept her tone conversational and non-threatening.

  Lachlan had begun to empty the third plate the moment she indicated it was up for grabs. “Ah, one of the neighboring villages, a long day’s ride from here.”

  Neighboring villages? Long day’s ride? Maggie focused intently on him, trying to figure out what was wrong. He was lying, but she couldn’t understand why. “I’ve been here for six months and haven’t seen you. I’m guessing you don’t visit Inverness often.”

  “Aye. Not often.” The bartender walked to their table with Lachlan’s ale; he held out a hand for it. “Thank you, my man. Good service is its own reward.”

  Maggie cringed, knowing full well the bartender would much rather have had a tip. “Well,” she persisted. “Which village?”

  His eyes narrowed. “What is it to you, lass?”

  She shrugged. “Just curious.”

  “Aye, and ye did a fair job looking me up and down while I perused yon pamphlet.” He crumpled a piece of newsprint, wiped grease from his fingers, and grinned at her. “Did ye like what ye saw?”

  Maggie felt her face heat. So her subtle inspection hadn’t gone unnoticed. She tried a more direct approach. “You’re a handsome man. Surely people have told you that before.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Afore, ye said my accent was off. Yours is passing strange. Ye canna be from these parts.”

  “I’m from the States. Everyone who hears me talk knows that, right off the bat.”

  “States? Which states might those be?” He looked genuinely confused, forehead crinkled as he sought to understand her.

  Maggie sucked in a breath. Something was decidedly wrong here. He’d asked ‘which states might those be’ in good faith, not realizing how odd his question was. She glanced at the empty dishes on their table and then at her watch.

  Should I? Maggie had learned to trust her hunches long before she’d gone to medical school. She came from a long family of witches, starting with one who’d been burned at the stake in Salem in the sixteen hundreds. Her living relatives had told her she had untapped talent should she ever choose to develop it. In truth, they’d been furious when she’d spurned the coven, but Maggie hadn’t cared. Though magic held a certain questionable fascination, she’d relegated it to I’ll delve into it later status so many times, she rarely thought about her gift at all anymore.

  Giving in to her instincts, she pulled her iPhone from her bag, swiped a finger across its screen, and brought up the message menu while watching Lachlan out of the corners of her eyes. Just as she suspected, though he tried to hide his reaction, incredulity flitted across his aristocratic features. She tapped a text message, punched Send, and slid the phone back into her purse.

  He jumped when the phone made its miniature jet airplane noise indicating her message had been sent. “What is that?” he asked, voice hoarse.

  “A phone.”

  “That doesna help.”

  Maggie felt a smile tug the edges of her mouth. “No. I didn’t think it would. You’re done eating. How about if you come with me?”

  “For what purpose?”

  “Well, for starters, we need to get your hair cut and get you some clothes so you don’t stick out like a sore thumb.”

  His eyes widened. His jaw set in a hard line. “While I am certain I could use a barber, I refuse to wear other than my plaid. It tells others I am the head of Clan Moncrieffe.”

  “Look.” She bent toward him and lowered her voice. “If you appear odd enough, the police will lock you up and call someone like me to come examine you.”

  “They wouldna dare,” he thundered, half-rising to his feet. The bar had filled with patrons since they’d arrived. Every head in the place swiveled to stare at him. Apparently wise to the ways of crowds, Lachlan held up both hands. “Doona mind me,” he murmured and sank back into his seat.

  “Need some help, Mags?” The bartender raced toward them, looking worried.

  She shook her head. “No, Hank. It’s fine. I’ve got things under control.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, very sure.” Maggie breathed a sigh of relief when Hank turned and retreated behind the bar.

  “Mayhap ye are right,” Lachlan said. “’Twould be prudent for us to leave this establishment afore they go for my throat and I am forced to defend myself.” He stuffed his dagger back beneath his kilt and stood.

  She sm
iled reassuringly and got to her feet. “There’s a barbershop not a block from here. How about if we make it our first stop?” When he nodded assent, nostrils flaring, she hooked a hand through his arm and half dragged him out of the pub. From the tension in his muscles beneath her fingertips, she could have sworn he was girding himself for combat.

  Has he had to fight his way out of places like this before? Maggie opened her mouth to ask but clacked it shut. They needed to talk, but for that, they needed privacy. Maybe after he’d gotten his hair trimmed, she’d come up with a secluded spot. She stole a glance at the proud set of his shoulders and his ramrod-straight posture. I could be wrong, but he looks like an ancient warrior.

  “Say,” she ventured. “What do you want to do about your beard?”

  He half-turned his head and looked at her with humor dancing in his green eyes. “Doona ye care for it?”

  Maggie laughed. “I’m sure it’s lovely, but you look like a reincarnation of Moses.”

  He snorted. “At least that name is a familiar one. Aye, lass, I plan to shave my beard. I prefer a bare face. Less problems with those wee beasties that live in human hair.”

  “Do you mean lice?” She untied her shirt from around her waist and slipped into it, securing the buttons. The barber was an older gentleman, and she didn’t want to make him uncomfortable by exposing too much skin.

  Lachlan watched her, eyes wary. “I doona ken the term. Ye said ye were needed at your work.”

  “I texted them and said I wouldn’t be in until tomorrow and to page me if they need me before then.”

  He opened his mouth as if to ask a question about what she’d just said, closed it, and shook his head. Moments later, he tried again. “Ye are a healer?” When she nodded, he went on. “Where are your healer’s robes? Your staff? Your herb pouch?” He looked as if he were trying to assimilate pieces of data that simply wouldn’t fit together. “The only female healers are witches, practitioners of the dark arts. Is that what ye are?”