Claire grinned inwardly at his gracious acceptance as she turned back to her packing. “That I will take for a ‘yes.’”
Hugh responded with a snort but his blue eyes held a hint of bewilderment. “Why are ye helping me, lass? Is it for naught but the pity ye expressed before? Am I truly so pathetic?”
“No, it’s not that,” Claire answered without turning away from the suitcase. Pathetic, she scoffed inwardly. Hugh might inspire many things but pity wasn’t truly one of them, so then why was she doing all this? Benevolence? Sympathy for a kindred soul? “I don’t know, really. I guess at this point I would just have to call it a random act of kindness.”
The momentary silence behind her told Claire that Hugh was either wondering at her response or doubting its veracity, but when he spoke, his gruff voice held a hint of softness and even warmth that it had been absent before. “Whatever yer reasons, tis gratifying tae know wi’ all that has changed, that human decency has nae entirely disappeared from the earth as I had feared.”
Claire jumped at the heat of his hand as it surrounded hers and stared up at him wide-eyed as he lifted it, pressing a gallant kiss against the back of her fingers. “Ye hae my gratitude, Sorcha.”
Her mouth opened and closed of its own accord, but no words emerged. Jerking her hand away, she turned back to the packing, resisting the urge to rub away the unexpected and unwelcome tingling his lips had left behind. “So, we need a plan,” she said briskly, pushing aside the awkward moment. “I’d ask you if you had any ideas, but …”
“I’d be nae help,” he finished wryly. “I am forced by circumstance to gi’ my fate over to ye …”
“A woman,” she interjected.
“Aye, a woman,” he relented, drawing out the concession. “But only because I ken nothing of this time and this America of yers. Bluidy hell, such ignorance goes against my nature.”
Claire paused and looked at him skeptically. How could he even say such a thing? Look at him, she thought. He’d come to her dirty, mangy, and unkempt. His hair looked as if he hadn’t cut it in a year, and given the length of his beard, he hadn’t shaved in almost as long. Of course, appearances weren’t everything, Claire acknowledged, but how much could a man from the Highlands of Scotland in the eighteenth century really know?
Pushing the thought aside, Claire resumed packing, but her mind was already plotting her strategy for escape. Where to go, she wondered again, more calmly this time. It did need to be somewhere unexpected, somewhere unrelated to her. If even a portion of what was portrayed on TV was true, the Feds were pretty handy at tracking people. They could probably figure out each purchase and call she’d made during the past week with just a few strokes of the keyboard.
So, she’d need more cash and a prepaid cell phone if she planned on calling anyone for help. Which took her back again to what to do and where to go. Barring Scotland, was there someplace Hugh might like? Some place to remind him of home?
Claire paused, remembering a college friend of hers who was from Iceland once telling her that Seattle had a huge population of Icelanders. They had settled there because the terrain and climate were similar to theirs. Mentally Claire drew a longitudinal line around the Earth, thinking that Seattle lined up pretty evenly with Scotland and that the pictures of Scotland she had seen over the years were comparable if not exact. Perhaps Hugh would find it comforting as well.
Unfortunately, she had grown up outside Seattle, and as she had thought before, her parents’ house would probably be the first place they would look. Then other family and friends. So she couldn’t take Hugh to her brothers’. But …
“My Uncle Robert owns a nice place out on Bainbridge Island … it’s an island in Puget Sound,” she started to clarify, then shook her head. “Never mind. Point being, it should be a good place to hide out. I’ve got an open invitation to visit anytime, and this seems like a good one.”
“A family member might be the first person contacted by those searching for us,” Hugh said, employing her own logic against her.
“Yes, but Uncle Robert isn’t really my ‘uncle,’” Claire said using her fingers to make air quotes around the word. “He and Aunt Sue are my godparents. Lifelong friends. Maybe too close, but I happen to know that the house isn’t titled under Uncle Robert’s name but rather some big umbrella corporation of his. I heard him talking about it to Dad years ago. Anyway, it’s secluded and fairly disconnected from anyone I can be linked to. I would think it would take them a while to find us there, so it might be our best shot.”
“They will nae doubt question my presence.”
“I’m hoping they won’t be there,” she said. “They are retired and travel a lot.”
“I shall concede tae yer greater knowledge of the possibilities.”
“Why, thank you!” Claire cast an amused glance at him over her shoulder as she went into the bathroom to retrieve some toiletries. “It’ll be getting there without being noticed that’s going to be tricky.”
“Getting there?” Hugh asked, his voice carrying easily between the rooms. “Is this Seattle not local?”
“No, it’s a couple hundred miles from here.”
A pause. “How are we tae travel there?”
“We’ll drive there. It’s only about four and a half hours away,” Claire told him as she toyed with her toothbrush thoughtfully before dropping it back in the holder. Missing toothbrushes and toothpaste would be an easy giveaway that she had packed up and gone. It would be easy enough to buy another along the way. And one for Hugh as well.
Lifting her head, Claire realized that Hugh had fallen silent, and for a moment she worried that he had snuck away while her back was turned, determined to make his own way after all. Rushing to the doorway, she breathed a sigh of relief to find him where she had left him. However, there was an expression on his face she couldn’t quite make out under the beard. “What is it?”
“That car,” the word rolled roughly in his deep brogue, “’tis a wicked fast thing.”
The implication registered and Claire smiled sympathetically. “Don’t like it much, do you?”
“I’ve never experienced anything moving so quickly,” he justified.
She had been in quite a hurry before, Claire reasoned. Of course, she had been panicked and scared … not that she wasn’t now. “I’d like to tell you that I could take it slower, but if we ever want to get there, we’ll probably have to go even faster.”
Hugh’s throat worked visibly beneath his heavy beard.
“I’m sure you’ll get used to it,” she offered kindly.
A strangled sound escaped him and Claire bit back another grin.
Chapter 8
Agreeing that a hasty departure might be noticed straight away – or perhaps Hugh was delaying the inevitable – they decided to wait until the next day to depart. Claire thought that surely if her house was being watched, the lack of activity within would lull Jameson’s suspicions. Tomorrow she could leave, presumably under the auspices of making the most of her unexpected “ vacation.”
But was she even being watched, she wondered? Special Agent Jameson had seemed suspicious, but that might only have been his normal condition. Claire chewed on her lip as she paced restlessly and peeked out through the blinds, searching the streets for unmarked cargo vans.
Looking out rather than watching her back. Was it strange that she was more wary of Jameson than she was of her unexpected guest?
“And this?”
“That’s the thermostat,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. The afternoon had progressed smoothly with mutual patience becoming their new unspoken standard after another brief but hot debate over the insanity of assaulting Dr. Fielding in his home and forcing the scientist to explain the ‘how’s and ‘why’s of Hugh’s presence in the twenty-first century. Claire could understand the Scotsman’s need for answers – she was curious herself – but was certain attacking the responsible party would only shorten rather than prolong Hugh’s freedom. “It
adjusts the temperature in here and automatically turns on either the heat or the air … the cooling system… to keep a constant temperature.”
Hugh nodded with some appreciation and continued his examination of the room. Having gotten over his aversion to asking questions, he had been filling the time with questions about nearly every object in her home while she divided her time between pacing and working the bloodstains out of his kilt and shirt. The thought of losing his clothing had visibly upset the Scot, and since she had time on her hands, Claire was determined to give her guest something to smile about.
But he hadn’t as yet.
The questioning had begun reluctantly, as if Hugh was loathe to ask anything more of her, but he had gained momentum as the hours passed, though he had quickly discontinued questions regarding how things worked when the engineer in her had given him a highly technical explanation of the ignition switch on the gas fireplace. He had walked around each room, picking up or pointing to any unfamiliar object while she explained its purpose, from the water heater to the thermostat. Light bulbs intrigued him, and the automatic gas fireplace fascinated him so much that he spent almost five minutes flipping the switch to start and stop the flames.
Hugh bounced on her couch and bed, complimenting the comfort of both.
“What happened after you fell through the hole that brought you here?” she suddenly thought to ask as Hugh began to explore the kitchen.
“The man I was chasing died soon after we arrived, and I was taken into custody wi’ nae explanation. They confiscated my jacket, belt, and sporran … and obviously my weapons,” he told her and held up a whisk.
“It’s to whip things like eggs,” she told him. “Didn’t you ask Dr. Fielding what had happened?”
“Naturally,” Hugh said, then scowled. “However, in retrospect, amid the confusion and disorientation, I might have represented myself as rather threatening.”
Claire could clearly picture a bloody and heavily armed Hugh grabbing the much smaller Fielding by the throat, trying to shake the truth from him. “So they told you nothing?”
“Nothing whatsoever,” he confirmed. “I couldnae communicate wi’ the Indian… I hae tae say, I dinnae imagine that he is what a man from India might look like.”
“Oh, that. I should have been more PC and said Native American.”
“Ahh, the red savage,” Hugh nodded with sudden understanding. “I should hae known. I have seen some drawings done when a group of them were brought to London long ago, but this one was quite beyond any resemblance tae the others. This?”
“It’s a can opener.” Claire moved into the kitchen to demonstrate the tool, giving Hugh a chance to repeat the process when she finished. “What did the hole look like? The one you fell through?”
“In truth, it happened so quickly I can hardly recall,” Hugh said, employing the opener on another can. “I tried tae jink aboot it but was too late. Is there truly nae way tae discover how I traveled here?”
“There might be a way,” she said, voicing an idea she had been toying with since their argument earlier about pressing Fielding for more information. “My brother is a bit of a hacker … he has some talent prying into things people like to keep secret. He might be able to find out what Dr. Fielding was working on. I don’t know what good it would do to know, though. I know it’s hard to hear, Hugh, but I can’t even begin to promise that I can find a way to get you back home.”
A shadow of sadness dimmed his features at her softly spoken words. “Aye, Sorcha, I ken what ye’re saying. Still, I should like tae know if only for my own edification.”
Edification? Claire studied her unexpected guest curiously. He was so full of startling contrasts that she didn’t know what to think of him. Savage yet gentle. Ignorant yet inquisitive. Unintelligible yet eloquent. She could see that beneath his analytical exterior Hugh was more deeply troubled by his current circumstances than he cared to let on. How could he not be, Claire thought. God only knew how she would react in similar circumstances. She supposed that she was lucky he was speaking at all and not still hiding in the closet, refusing to face reality.
Of course, Hugh—Highland warrior that he was—would never hide. His reaction to her offers of help told her that he was a proud man. He would face his fears head-on, and Claire found that she had to admire his courage.
On the other hand, what she perceived as courage might have been nothing more a state of denial over the whole thing. He had asked questions aplenty but strangely had not asked any further questions to test her knowledge of world history. Uncertain what emotions might be holding him back, Claire had so far refrained from bringing up the subject herself, sure that he would ask when he was ready.
“What are our plans once we leave here?”
“Get you to safety.”
“And then?”
“I haven’t thought that far,” Claire admitted. “Out of the country, at least. Out of reach. Do you have any thoughts?”
Hugh shook his head. “None beyond returning to my homeland as yet.”
“Do you have family, Hugh?”
Hugh stiffened at the question. On the few previous occasions she had questioned his personal history, he had merely held up another item for her to identify. This time, he only looked over her head at the mantel. “I overheard that agent say that yer husband had been killed. Was he a soldier?”
Claire looked at the array of photos as well, at Matt’s smiling face. Tit for tat. Her prying questions answered with the same. Well, that was one way to shut her up, wasn’t it? “I’m getting hungry. How about you?”
Taking over the kitchen, she cooked a simple dinner of fish, rice, and vegetables, demonstrating the gas range and microwave in light cheerful tones as she went along. While the veggies were steaming, she offered to get Hugh a drink. He rejected water briskly with a blink of disbelief but accepted a beer when she offered that instead. God knew she needed a drink as well.
Claire retrieved a bottle from the fridge and showed him how to twist the cap off. Hugh lifted it to his lips and took a drink but lowered it quickly with a grimace. “What?”
“’Tis cold and tastes like water,” he explained, setting the bottle aside.
Claire considered him thoughtfully and went into her pantry to find the remnants of the six-pack of Guinness her dad had left behind the last time her parents had come to visit. Remembering that Guinness didn’t twist off, Claire went through the motions of prying off the cap and watched as Hugh sipped more tentatively. His grimace wasn’t nearly as exaggerated, and he took another, longer pull, which Claire considered a good sign.
She finished cooking and they ate in silence. After discovering that the fish and veggies weren’t merely a first course but the only course, Hugh explored the contents of the refrigerator while Claire sipped a fortifying glass of wine and studied him.
That heavy beard still covered most of his face, so it was hard to tell what he actually looked like underneath, but on the surface, he still looked like some hulking backwoods lumberjack. The bloodied kilt was gone, of course, but since Hugh was several sizes larger than her husband had been, the only clothes she’d had that would stretch to fit him had been a pair of Matt’s old Army sweatpants and a T-shirt. Matt had been six feet tall and a muscular 195 pounds. Given that his clothes fit Hugh like a second skin hugging his huge body, Claire would wager that the Scot was at least four inches taller and thirty pounds heavier.
Through the thin cotton, every bulging muscle was evident, and Claire could see that there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. While part of her wondered what he did for a living—she imagined a soldier since he said he’d been fighting a war, or perhaps a blacksmith—there was another part of her that wondered if she shouldn’t be more concerned for her own personal safety.
A man that size could kill her in an instant, snap her like a twig. That much was patently obvious. His vow to refrain from doing do so notwithstanding, her mother would call her a fool for letting any strange man in
to her home. Was she in danger? Hugh had insisted that he wouldn’t hurt her, but wasn’t that what all the best psychopaths said just before snapping their victim’s neck?
Plus, what she knew of Scotland’s history—and Claire acknowledged that it wasn’t much—portrayed a fairly violent people. Their past was filled with wars and people who painted their faces blue. He might be waiting to murder her in her sleep for all she knew.
But even knowing that, Claire couldn’t find it in herself to be afraid of him. For all that he was a warrior of sorts, she couldn’t see him killing in cold blood. Besides, Hugh had already had opportunity aplenty to hurt her. If he had been planning on killing her, she thought logically, surely he would have done it already.
Still, he was a stranger, and if there was one thing life in the twenty-first century taught a woman it was that she should always be cautious around them. So she watched the Scot, studying him as he rambled on and on of everything he had seen, and his rough brogue became easier to understand with each passing hour. After a while it became clear that, while Hugh wasn’t likely to hide in a closet to avoid conflict, he would rather wallow in mundane conversation or simple silence than speak of his own fears and worries. There was nothing Claire could say to sway him from his more inane dialogue. When she tried his only response was to turn the probing back at her.
Still, she had seen his expression when he realized that his home was lost to him forever. That had to affect a man, any man. “I know this is the last thing you want to hear again tonight …”
“Then I beg ye, dinnae say it.”
“… but I really think you should talk about your family and what you’re feeling about all of this. They say it’s good sometimes to just …”
“Nae more!” Hugh stood abruptly, pulling off the t-shirt in a sweeping motion, and Claire froze in uncertainty, not cowering away but tensing. He was incredibly large, and that massive chest was bulging with muscle and covered in recent scabs and scars. She had already acknowledged and dismissed the idea that he could kill her without much effort but Claire realized only in that moment that—without expending much energy at all—there were other things a man could do to a woman that were just as bad.
A Time & Place for Every Laird Page 6
