by Ann Gimpel
“The barbershop is just ahead. We need to be alone, so we can talk. We can do that once we’re done here.”
“Ye dinna answer me.”
Maggie stepped in front of him and laid a hand on either shoulder; she gazed right into his amazing green eyes. A woman could lose herself in their depths. “The only thing you need to know right now is I would never hurt you.”
He placed a finger beneath her chin; his gaze bored into hers. Maggie felt something like an electric shock move from the top of her head to the soles of her feet, but she held herself open. Lachlan had to trust her. If she warded herself—one of the simplest magics, and practically the only spell she knew—he never would.
His expression softened. “Aye,” he murmured. “A witch, but a puny one, or mayhap your magic’s undeveloped.”
Maggie laughed. She couldn’t help herself. “Christ! You sound just like my grandmother.”
A hint of a smile played around his mouth making him look incredibly desirable. “She must be a wise, old crone.”
“Inside.” Maggie moved away from him and pushed the door to the barbershop open. “I’m going to make you earn your wages today, Fernley,” she called out.
A portly, bald man wrapped in a white coat emerged from the back of the shop. Bright blue eyes twinkled behind a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles. “Maggie, my girl. What have you brought me?”
“Shave my beard and cut my hair,” Lachlan said, the imperious tone back in his voice.
The barber raised his eyebrows. “You could do with a shot of manners, young man.”
Maggie saw Lachlan’s jaw tighten, but he gritted out, “Please.”
“Better. Have a seat.” Fernley pointed to a chair; Lachlan settled himself. “Say, that sword looks really old. I’m fascinated by antiques. Mind if I take a closer look?” Fernly bent his head to inspect it.
Lachlan laid a hand protectively over the hilt. “Aye, that I do. No hand but mine touches this weapon.”
“Hmph. I see.” Fernley shot Maggie a look that clearly said, Where in God’s name did you come up with this joker? “Tilt your head back, then. We’ll begin with the beard.”
An hour later, much of which had been consumed getting the snarls out of Lachlan’s hair, Maggie withdrew her ATM card and handed it to Fernly. She felt Lachlan’s eyes on her. He watched intently as the barber swiped her card through his reader, handed it back to her, and she bent to sign the small display.
He seemed either cowed or overwhelmed as they left the shop. Maggie cast a covert glance his way. Her breath caught in her throat. If he’d been the most handsome man she’d ever seen before Fernley’s ministrations, he was doubly or trebly so now. The beard had hidden much of his facial structure. With it gone, and his hair cut to shoulder length, he could have passed for a male model—or a movie star.
“Where to next, lassie?” He stopped a few feet from the barbershop door. She hesitated while she thought about where they could sit, safe from prying ears. Apparently, he mistook her silence for ambivalence. “Lass.” His voice held a musical undercurrent. “Ye have done far more than enough for me. I can find my own way from here. If ye might tell me where I could leave some coins to repay your generosity—”
“No.” She grabbed his arm and then let go, feeling she’d overstepped the boundaries of propriety. “I mean, if you’d like to leave, of course you’re free to do so. But I thought if we had time alone where we could talk, it might clear up some of the questions I’ve seen in your eyes.”
“Was talk the only thing ye had in mind, lass?” He cocked his head to one side, gaze moving from the tip of her head to her mouth to her breasts, and then lower still.
Maggie inhaled shakily and forced herself to meet his gaze. “Like I said, you’re quite the hunk, but I still think you’d be better served talking with me than fucking me.”
His brows drew together. “It is not seemly for a lass to use such language. I doona understand how ye can be a healer yet speak like a gutter wench.”
She took stock of what she knew. He wasn’t mentally ill. Not any mental illness she knew about, anyway. And she was familiar with all of them. So that left out delusional, fugue state, and a fixed time or person hallucination. Besides, even undeveloped as they were, the boost from her witch senses corroborated his sanity. If he wasn’t ill, there was only one explanation left. He had to be from the past. How he’d ended up on the streets of Inverness in 2012 was beyond her, but it had happened just the same.
“Lass?” It was his turn to look appraisingly at something other than her body.
Oh, what the hell. She drew him off to one side of the sidewalk. Then she moved right up next to him and stood on tiptoe, so she could talk into his ear. “Please. You were right when you intuited I had witch blood. Somehow you also knew I’d never trained my magic beyond an embarrassingly basic skill set.”
He wrapped his arms around her and drew her against his body. The heat from him set her nerve endings on fire. Her nipples pebbled into peaks. Too tight shorts rubbed against suddenly swollen labia. “Aye, lass. Now tell me something I doona know.” His mouth was inches from hers. An enticing, exotic scent reminiscent of bay rum and vanilla made her want to lick him from head to toe.
Maggie fought an urge to brush her lips against his, to taste him, starting with his finely chiseled lips, and forged ahead, mouth pressed against his ear. “You’re from a different time. It’s why you looked as if a demon walked over your grave when you read the newspaper. You must have seen the date.”
“Aye, and what else do ye think ye know?” He ran his hands ever so slowly down her back. They left a trail of sparks before settling on her ass. He cupped it in his hands and snugged her against his unmistakable erection.
She wriggled against him, disconcertingly near coming. “I can’t think when you’re this close.” She wrenched herself away, breathing hard.
A slow, lazy grin lit his heartbreakingly handsome face. “Aye, lass, I’ll accompany you. To talk, mind ye.” He winked.
For one wild, crazy moment, she thought about bringing him to her rented flat. It would certainly give them the privacy they needed. Or I could rent us a hotel room, which would be just as chancy. Maggie waged a brief internal war with her common sense.
He’s a stranger, one side of her brain screamed in protest.
So what?
“What was it ye said about the sign over the pub door?” He asked laconically, almost as if he could read her mind. “It doesna bite. Well, neither do I.”
“My car’s a couple of blocks from here. If I’m going to bring you home with me, we’ll need to drive.”
He looped an arm over her shoulders. “Lead out, lass. I understand drive, but what is a car?”
“Shh.” She placed a finger over her lips and looked around them. Thank Christ no one was standing close enough to hear.
She pointed at a string of vehicles parked next to the curb and started walking. “All of them.”
“But where are the horses?”
“People haven’t used horses for anything other than pleasure riding for about a hundred years.”
He spoke low. “What makes these car-things move?”
“Gasoline and sometimes electricity.”
He chuckled and tightened his arm around her. “Aye, and this just gets deeper and deeper, doesna it?”
“I’m afraid so.” Her side, pressed against his body, blazed with need to be closer still. To clear her head, she moved from beneath his arm and trotted ahead, wishing she’d worn tennis shoes rather than sandals.
“Lass?” He chugged alongside her, easily catching her up.
“It’s the red Fiat halfway down the next block.” In a burst of frivolity, she added, “Bet I can beat you,” and took off running.
Chapter Three
Lachlan wasn’t expecting her to race away like a young child. It took him several moments to stop staring at the clean lines of ass and legs as she ran and chase after her. The lass, Maggie, was
as enticing a woman as he’d ever come across. What hips she had. If ever a woman were made for childbearing… “Caught you.” He grabbed her arm, spun her to face him, and angled his mouth over hers. Half anticipating a sharp slap, he was pleasantly surprised when she opened her mouth beneath his and sparred with his tongue. She tasted sweet, like a well-aged wine. The swell of her breasts pressed against his chest nearly drove him mad.
Breaking their kiss, she murmured, “We’re never going to get to the car at this rate.”
“Ye said red.” He gazed at the row of metal things she’d said were cars. “I only see one red one, so it must be yours.”
“Very good, Einstein. Let’s see if we can get there.” She pulled away and started walking again. He loped to her side and took her arm.
“Einstein?”
“Never mind.” She fished her keys from her bag and hit the clicker. “Go ahead, get in.” She motioned to the door on the opposite side from the walkway. “I’m still not that great with this right-hand drive thing, but I promise not to kill us.”
He walked into the street. An obnoxiously loud noise set his heart racing; a car sped past, scant inches from his body. They are just like carriages, he tried to tell himself as he gulped air. ’Twas stupid of me not to look afore stepping into the roadway. He flattened himself against the side of Maggie’s car and looked at the outline of the door. A recessed, silvery panel must be the secret to open it. He was just reaching for it when she leaned across the car, did something, and his door popped open. He folded his frame into a space that felt far too small and made certain his sword was snugged up against himself before tugging the door shut.
He gazed at dials and levers. Maggie twisted something, and the same whirring sound all these contraptions made rang loud in his ears. “Hang on,” she murmured. “This will seem strange to you, but here we go. Whatever you do, do not open your door until the car stops, no matter how nervous this makes you.”
“I am never nervous.” His voice wasn’t as smooth and confident as he’d hoped it would sound. He tightened his grip on his sword.
She grinned at him and pulled into the street. “I would be. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“How far can one of these cars travel in a day?”
She shrugged. “Depends. Three hundred miles is an easy day, but you could drive five or six hundred if you started early and drove until late. In the States, where the roads are better, I’ve driven as much as eight hundred, but I was pretty tired at the end of it.”
He fell back against the seat cushions. Breath whooshed out of him. She couldn’t have traveled such a great distance in a single day. It wasn’t possible. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Could he trust this woman? This witch? She could have closed her mind to him—not that it would have kept him out—but she hadn’t even tried. Questions tumbled through his overburdened brain. How could he have slept so long yet be relatively untouched? What was he going to do to find Rhukon? For that matter, was Rhukon still after him?
Because his mind spun like an out-of-control top, he shifted to things he’d need to know so he wouldn’t appear a total dolt. What did text mean or page? What was this gasoline that powered cars? How did men wage war without horses?
“Eight hundred miles in a day,” he muttered. “That canna be.”
“Och aye,” Maggie aped a Scottish brogue, “but ’tis.”
“Has everything changed so much, then?” he murmured.
“Yes, and especially since 1900.”
Lachlan shook his head. He reached inward for Kheladin, but the dragon was silent, probably as disconcerted as he was. Were there dragons in this world? Or had they all died out? He was enticed with the woman, wanted her fiercely, but she’d spoken true when she’d said her knowledge would be more useful to him than her body.
Well now, there’s no reason why I canna have both. “Tell me about 2012.”
“It might be better if you ask me questions.” She briefly laid a hand over one of his and squeezed.
“I doona know where to begin.”
“Where did you come from?”
He inhaled sharply, reluctant to disclose what might be used against him.
“Lachlan.” She squeezed his hand again. “I will never hurt you. I need information to help you.”
Her words held the ring of truth when he tested them with his magic. “The place where ye found me was verra close to where my castle used to stand. I…”
“Keep going,” she urged. “Just let the words come. We have a little time before we get to my flat.”
He took stock of just what to tell her. She didn’t need to know about Kheladin or his dragon-shifter magic or the cave. If things went to hell, it was the only place he could retreat that he could fortify with magic.
She looked at him as if she could read his mind. Who knew with witches? They all had at least one strong suit; mayhap that was hers. Lachlan shuttered his thoughts. His magic was far stronger than hers. Even a tiny trickle would be more than adequate to keep her from his mind.
“What year—?” she began
He waved her to silence. “Everything is so new,” he smiled disarmingly, “I fear ’tis a fair challenge to know just where to begin. In 1683 I had an, um, altercation with a powerful warlock. He ensorcelled me.”
“Ensorcelled, as in put you to sleep?”
“Aye. I just wakened a few hours ago.”
Maggie’s breath whistled from between her teeth. She pulled the car into a large square area off the roadway and placed it next to another. “We’re here,” she said brusquely. He grappled with the side of the car door, hunting for the trick to make it spring open. “Never mind. I’ll come round and let you out.”
His sword clanked loudly against the car when he struggled to unfold his long legs and get out. “You really don’t need that,” she said.
He raised an eyebrow and stood. “How would I defend us? Is this a world where magic is common? Ye said ye had a witchy grannie.”
“Come on.” She crooked a finger. “We’re better off talking inside.”
He followed her into a rambling grey stone building with 1846 carved over the lintel. It looked as if it had once been a manor house. Mayhap the lass had more in the way of resources than he imagined if she could afford such a place. They climbed to the second floor. It confused him. Why would she not receive him in the great room or a parlor?
Maggie pulled a key from her bag and inserted it into the lockset on a peeling, oak door. “Why do ye keep your bedchamber locked, lass, but not the house proper?”
“It’s not just my bedroom. This is where I live.” She pushed the door open and gestured him inside. “This was a manor house once upon a time. The family that owns it broke it up into four apartments with a common area downstairs that any of the tenants can use if they want.”
“The family must have fallen on hard times indeed to rent out their ancestral home to strangers,” he said softly.
“Not necessarily. The house was quite a way out of town. The story I was told, the owners didn’t want to live here anymore. Think they tried to sell it, didn’t get any takers, and so turned it into what it is today.”
Lachlan’s brow creased. No matter what Maggie said, giving up one’s home meant the next generation would have nowhere to live. It was a truly draconian move, likely driven by something the lass didn’t know about. He looked around, curious. Rather than a bedchamber, he saw a small, neat, sitting room with a leather couch and a puffy, soft-looking chair covered in flowered fabric. Something he couldn’t identify sat on a table; it looked like a mirror, but its surface was black. Books overflowed onto every available surface. He didn’t see any scrolls.
The door snicked shut behind him. He heard the thunk of a lock falling into place.
“There.” She walked around him and headed for the far end of the room. He recognized a table and chairs but not much else. “Can I make you some tea?”
“Tea is a w
oman’s drink, lass. Have ye a stiff ale, or better still, whiskey?”
Maggie spun and faced him. “I have both, but it’s not evening yet.”
He frowned. “What? Is this some kind of rule? No spirits except weak beer until after dark?” He chuckled at the absurdity of it.
She cocked her head to one side. “There’s a saying, It’s always five o’clock somewhere.”
“And that means?”
“People use it as an excuse to drink whenever they want, because five at night is supposedly a safe time to begin drinking.”
“I doona understand. Safe for whom?”
“It doesn’t matter. Sit.” She waved her hands at the couch.
“Will ye be sitting next to me?” he inquired archly.
“Eventually. I’m going to make myself a cup of tea. You know,” she winked at him, “that women’s drink. And I’m going to make myself a sandwich.”
“What is a sandwich?”
“Bread, meat, cheese, mayonnaise—”
“Might ye make one for me as well?”
Maggie threw back her head and laughed. “I suppose after over three hundred years asleep, you’d be hungry. Christ! You’re like the male equivalent of Sleeping Beauty.”
“I doona understand.”
“Look, if you don’t want to sit, come on into the kitchen. We can chat while I make us something to eat. Sleeping Beauty is a children’s story about a princess who was ensorcelled and slept for a hundred years.”
“What wakens her?”
“A handsome prince finds her and kisses her.”
“Aye. At least some things havena changed—and likely never will.” He stepped to her side, watching as she drew items from a small cold box, rather like a spring room, filled a kettle, and set it on the stove. Flames leapt when she twisted a dial.
Lachlan nodded to himself. Life had certainly improved if you didn’t have to light a fire to cook over and tend the kindling so it either didn’t go out or blaze so brightly the food burned. Not having to retreat outside to the spring house or the buttery for cold items was another improvement. “Where is the pump?” He tapped the kitchen faucet.
