Mac’s older sister had married her rich college boyfriend, according to plan. After losing their parents two years earlier in a car accident, Cam had set out with dogged determination to rebuild a life that was safe and secure. With both of her children in preschool, her life was in order, so she turned to Mac’s.
Mac pulled into a gas station off I-84. While waiting for the tank to fill, she watched the snow fall. The large flakes had begun nearly an hour earlier—just before she had started to cry—and had flown at her windshield and covered the ground in a thickening coating. That had really cut into a perfectly good cry. With an eye roll for Cam, who had reminded her yet again that she was single, Mac set thoughts of the evening aside. After following slushy grooves in I-684, she had made it around the sharp curve to I-84 and was minutes from home. Sweats and fuzzy socks waited for her by the fireplace with a good book. The best part was that it was only Friday. She had the rest of the weekend to enjoy being alone. All alone. Best part. Mac sighed.
Finished pumping, Mac slogged through the freezing slush to her car door and got in. She cursed as she fishtailed out of the station, and she proceeded more carefully down the highway.
“Okay,” she said to herself. “Let’s just get home safely." A car passed with its brights on. “Thanks! No problem. I didn’t need to see, anyway.” She tightened her grip on the wheel. “Sheesh, Mac, if you’re going to be one of those single ladies who talk to themselves, you should at least get a cat so it’ll look like you’re talking to someone.”
Pulling off the highway, she headed down the winding road to her home. Snow weighed down the branches of evergreen trees. Mac had to remind herself that such beauty could also be deadly. She had stood on her deck on such nights and looked into the woods when the cracking of ice-covered limbs cut through the stillness.
“Mind the road,” she told herself as a tire caught a slick spot. Plows had not been through yet, and the snow was well over four inches and still falling.
Mac wondered how long ago it had started. The weather was always worse at her house than at her sister’s. She regretted leaving Cam’s before she remembered why she had made the decision. Cam had cornered her in the kitchen.
“Is that fictional man you’re waiting for worth spending your life all alone?”
“I won’t be alone. I’ll have you.” Mac grinned.
Cam did not. “But you need your own life.”
Those were the words that had cut her. They had always been a team, named Cameron and Mackenzie after their mother’s Scottish ancestors. Love for their ancestral home had been passed down through the generations. Their great-grandfather told his children, and they in turn told theirs, that in each generation, one child would long for the homeland. Mac had always known she was the one, and Cam had always made fun of her for being born in the wrong place and time.
*
Mac had once made the mistake of leaving her book on a table when her sister came over. The cover showed a muscular hunk wearing nothing but a kilt and clutching a small-waisted woman while the wind blew his hair and left hers untouched.
With a derisive wave toward the book, Cam said, “Is that what you want for a husband?”
“Of course not!” Mac dismissed her with a smirk. “He can be wearing a shirt.”
Cam rolled her eyes and exhaled, but she also gave up. Score one for Mac.
Mac smiled at the memory but grew somber when she recalled what else Cam had said in the kitchen.
“You can’t live life alone.”
“And why not?” Mac asked.
“You’ll be lonely.”
“Not as lonely as I’d be if I married without love.”
Cam’s face showed no inkling of understanding.
Mac said, “I don’t know where to find it—or if I ever will. If I can’t, then I’ll live alone; if I can, then I’ll know it was meant to be.”
Cam shook her head. “It’s not like in the novels.”
For you. Mac bit back those words. “Maybe not. But I know what I want.”
“And what’s that?”
“I want someone whose arms feel like home.”
“And how will you ever know, when you won’t let a man within arm’s length?”
*
Mac’s eyes misted with tears. She feared her sister was right. Even so, she would rather live alone than with Martin—Barton. He was nice, but if she wanted to live with someone nice, she’d go back to college and get a roommate. She didn’t want a roommate; she wanted a soul mate. That was the part that made Cam smirk. Well, Cam could do what she wanted. She’d made the life that she wanted, and she was happy.
“And I’m doing what I want,” Mac said to herself. Going home to my empty house.
She drove past the old stone chamber, one of dozens scattered about Putnam County, NY. A person might drive by one without noticing. They blended into the landscape. Some were deep in the woods; others sat like lonely relics beside country roads. Some thought they were built by ancient Celts, but no one knew for sure.
Up ahead, moonlight gave the chamber a magical glow. Beside it, something moved. Deer?
“No, they’re too smart to be out in weather like this, unlike me.”
Her headlights lit up a man clad in a kilt and black doublet. He stepped onto the road and held his arms up to signal her to stop.
“What the hell?” Mac said.
She slammed her foot on the brake pedal and went into a skid that spun her. The car moved too fast and bounced too much for her to see which way to steer—not that steering would change anything. With a slam, she stopped, and the airbag deployed. She had run into the side of the mountain. That would have alarmed her if the acrid smell from the airbag had not overpowered her senses. She waved her hands, trying to clear the cloud of dust while “Sleigh Ride” played on the stereo and her horn blared from the impact. She turned the stereo off and leaned her head back against the headrest to steady her breathing and her pounding heart.
Through the steam rising out of her car, she spied a large tree that had fallen across the road. If the kilted man had not stepped into the road to stop her, she would have plowed head-on into the tree. Kilted man? Mac looked about. He was gone.
“Great. I’m hallucinating. That car horn is real, though.” She needed to get out of the car. She struggled to get the keys out of the ignition, but they wouldn’t budge. The car was still in drive but crunched into a boulder that jutted out into the road. After a struggle with the gearshift, she got it into park and pulled out her keys. Her horn didn’t stop. Dizzying frustration roiled within her. “I can’t think with that noise.”
Her head swam. She pulled the door handle, but it was stuck. She had to get out of the car. She leaned her throbbing head back on the headrest and turned toward the passenger side. It was too close to the rocks. She would have to ease her way out through the driver’s side window. Mac’s hand trembled as she unbuckled her seatbelt. Her vision blurred and began to go dark. Don’t faint now.
The door creaked and then opened, and a deep male voice said, “Come, lass.” Strong arms pulled her from the car. “Can you stand?”
He set her on her feet, but her legs buckled. He scooped her up. Fuzzyheaded, Mac leaned on his chest. Her hand rested on his shoulder, and her fingers traced a fold of wool draped over his doublet.
“Nice kilt, Scotty. But just so you know, real Scotsmen go shirtless.” She smiled and laid her head on his shoulder.
*
She awoke to the smell of wood smoke and the feel of strong arms holding her. She tried to sit up, but the arms tightened.
In low, calming tones, he said, “You’re safe. I’ll not harm you.”
“Not harm me?” That brought her fully alert. “Why would you even say that? Who are you? Where are we?” She winced as pain shot through her temple.
“You’ve bumped your head.”
“With what, a ten-pound hammer?” She tenderly touched her head to assess the damage.
Fire
lit the rough ceiling and walls of what looked like a cave—a cave barely large enough for the two of them. She was nestled over his lap. Mac’s situation did not look good. She was trapped in a cave with a large, rugged man. How she got there, she didn’t recall. He’d probably clubbed her over the head and dragged her there by her hair. But where was there? Past the fire, rough-hewn stones framed the falling snow.
“The stone chamber,” she whispered.
“I beg your pardon, lass?”
“Lass”? And a Scottish brogue? That was cute.
Mac turned to look at him but quickly turned back, refusing to be drawn in by his looks. Dim firelight or not, she knew handsome when she saw it. Tousled brown hair brushed his temples. Those eyes were dark and warm, and they’d searched hers a little too deeply. She had to work hard to resist him. Her practical side was, thank God, stronger.
“I’m a black belt,” she warned. “If you try anything, I can kill you.” She prayed he wouldn’t ask her what she had a black belt in. She had one—in her belt drawer. It came with her little black dress.
He laughed at her threat, and his laugh was full and infectious. She forced a stern look to hide the urge to laugh with him.
“I’ll be careful not to anger you, then.” Even his smirk was good-looking.
Mac nodded. “See that you don’t.”
He answered her nod with his own, while suppressing a grin. With that settled, she became aware of his body against hers. Her inner sirens sounded. With a jab of her elbows into his chest, she pushed up, grabbing his thighs for leverage. She lifted a brow. Don’t let those rock-hard muscles distract you. Keep moving.
He leaned back, raising his palms in surrender. “Dinnae fash yourself, lass. I was trying to warm you. You were shaking before you awoke.”
“I’m not fashing myself—whatever that is. But if I feel like fashing, I’ll fash as much as I want.” Fashing or not, she felt cold away from his arms. She wouldn’t think about that. “I would like an explanation, if that’s not too much to ask.”
“Of what?”
“Of why we’re here, for starters.”
“I pulled you from your carriage and brought you here for shelter and warmth.”
She glared at him in disbelief.
“Here you are, sheltered and warmed. I’ve not hurt you, have I?”
“Maybe you were waiting for me to wake up.” She eyed him with more mistrust than she felt, but she wouldn’t let him know how strangely unthreatening he seemed. Sick bastards counted on trust to lure victims. Of course, he had no need to lure, since she was already in his lair. They were inside a shelter too far from houses for anyone to hear if she screamed, which was all the more reason not to trust him. He might be some perv who’d wandered off the Appalachian Trail. It ran past her house, which unfortunately, was still too far of a walk in a storm. “Are you a hiker?”
“Nay, lass.”
The soft light in his eyes and his quiet confidence unsettled her more than she dared to let on. He met every skeptical look, every challenging edge in her voice with a calm hint of a smile.
She turned away, afraid the firelight might reveal the color he brought to her cheeks. He had clouded her thinking, so she latched onto the last thing he said. “What’s with the lass stuff, anyway?”
He looked quizzically at her.
“The way you’re talking. You’re good, but I’ve been to Scotland. That accent’s a fake.”
That seemed to amuse him. “Is it, now?”
She squinted as she scrutinized him. “Where have I seen you before?”
“In front of your carriage.”
“My carriage? Oh, you mean my car. Yeah, I guess that’s it.” Their eyes met and lingered too long. She glanced down to avoid the power of his gaze. “What’s up with that kilt? Are you in a pipe band?”
“It’s a plaid.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he was right. She shrugged. “Sorry, plaid. Who are you? Do you live around here?” The houses in that area were so far apart that a person could go months without seeing a neighbor. Perhaps that’s how she knew him.
“Nay.”
Without even looking, she felt his guileless look, and it held her. Despite her efforts to keep him at bay, he drew her to him. She couldn’t come up with her usual quips that put guys off. She felt lost. She didn’t like that sensation. “Why do I feel like I should know you?”
“Do you?”
Something in his searching look made her want to say yes. She puzzled over it then exhaled and shook her head. “That bump on the head did a number on me.”
He gave half a nod and stared into the darkness—but not before Mac saw his disappointment. She found herself wishing she hadn’t been the cause. A gust blew in some snow, and Mac shivered. In one motion, he slipped the end of his plaid over her shoulders. She stiffened and turned to defend herself, but his stern look cautioned her not to.
“Are you going to hurt me?” she asked.
“Hurt you?” He looked annoyed. “Lass, do you not think I’d have done it by now if I wanted to?” His anger faded as he saw the fear in her eyes. “Och, you wee fool. I told you that I wouldnae harm you, but I will keep you warm if you’ll let me.” He looked at her, arms suspended between embrace and retreat. With a nod, he lowered his arms. “Aye, well, I’ll not put you in fear. I’ll stay over here by the wall. Warm yourself by the fire. I give you my word, I’ll not trouble you.”
She eyed him as he put distance between them. She drew farther away, as close to the fire as she could get without snow falling on her. She needed to make her way home. He might fall asleep, and she could steal away into the darkness. With any luck, the snow would keep up long enough to cover her tracks. Her house wasn’t far down the road. If she could make it there, she could call someone for help.
But what would she tell them? A stranger pulled me from a wreck and warmed me by the fire, where he proceeded to not lay a hand on me? There must be a local ordinance against unsolicited gentlemanliness. Yeah… and those long, powerful legs ought to be outlawed. She’d had quite a good look at them. Under normal circumstances, she’d be wary of him for far different reasons. Men like him drew attention from everyone. Who would want a lifetime of being judged unworthy beside someone as good-looking as him? Whoa, Mac. You’re supposed to be planning your escape, not your marriage!
She glanced at him. True to his word, he hadn’t moved, nor was he even looking at her. The firelight caught his profile as he stared into the night. She studied him further. Hair dark as black coffee, full lips—probably soft and warm. Good grief, Mac. Get a grip. As though hearing her, he turned and made eye contact.
He said, “’Tis wise for you to be cautious. You dinnae ken me, so you’ve no reason to trust me. But I wish you’d not fear me. I’ve done naught to harm you.”
“So far.” She hugged her knees.
“Mac? Do you not ken me?” His expression was tinged with frustration. “I mean know.”
“I know what ken means.” His gaze troubled her. Unbidden sorrow haunted his eyes. Her heart ached as she whispered, “Please stop.”
He shook his head slightly. She might not have seen it had he not turned to the fire with clenched jaw.
Mac said, “Don’t look at me like that.”
He let out his breath and gave a casual shake of his head. “I’m sorry. The firelight must have played tricks with my eyes. For a moment, you looked like someone I once knew.” He smiled, but it was forced.
“Did she hurt you?”
“Hurt me? Och, no.”
“I’m sorry, I thought—”
“She would never have hurt me.” He stared at the snow.
“You loved her?”
“I love her still. I’ve risked everything to find her.”
“Oh. The way you talked, I thought she might have died.”
“Perhaps she did, in a way.” He glanced at her. “We were parted and lost one another.”
Mac nodded. A pang of longing
took her by surprise. Such emotions could only distract her, along with the little things she was noticing—his strong jawline stubbled with a day’s growth of beard and those lips. Her eyes kept coming back to those lips. He turned toward her, and she lifted her eyes to meet his knowing look. He had noticed her studying him, and he did not object.
Doing her best to look neutral, Mac said, “So she lives around here?”
“Aye.” He hesitated, as though forming just the right words. “We met not far from here.”
“Oh?”
He looked away. “It has been a long time. I was daft to think we would be as we were.”
“So you’ve seen her already?”
“Aye.” He stared into the flames and smiled to himself. “It was not the right time. And what of you?”
She frowned. “Me?”
“Is there a man?”
She didn’t like that question and made a sharp turn to miss it. “I'm with a man right now—a very strange man.” She grinned.
With an answering grin, he said, “Aye, a strange man who found you shelter and then made a fire to warm you.”
“Thank you, but—stop me if I’m wrong—you’d have done that anyway for yourself. So if you’re thinking I owe you anything, I don’t.”
He let out a full-throated laugh. “You misunderstand me, my lady.”
“Really? Like a little ‘my lady’ will make it all better. You Brits think we all get stupid over an accent—”
His eyes blazed. “Madam, I am a Scot.”
“Well, Scotty, last I looked, Scotland was part of the U.K.”
His face went ashen. “The what?”
“The United Kingdom. Hey, are you okay?” Other than being unhinged…
He looked away and suppressed whatever shock he felt. “Oh, aye. I am well.” He returned his focus to her. “But you’re shivering. Come here, lass.” He opened his arms and beckoned her to him.
Mac eyed him. His expression was open and honest. She found herself trusting him for no reason other than her gut feeling. Despite his sturdy physique, he was gentle. It was in his eyes. They were large and deeply set, looking at the world with guileless kindness and sympathy—perhaps even sadness. Once more, her gaze fell to his mouth. Her eyes darted away as she tried to think clearly. He stretched out his hand.
The Kiss: An Anthology About Love and Other Close Encounters Page 3
