Rogue on the Rollaway

by MacLeod, Shannon

  Her trepidation building, Colleen nodded. His attention remained riveted to the magazine, gazing in apparent amazement at the pictures. He snatched up two more magazines–the new issues of People and Cosmopolitan– looking bewildered as he flipped through both from cover to cover. While he skimmed through her light reading material, she took a good look at his unusual clothing. His once white linen shirt was dirty and torn, and he was wearing some sort of leather pants, the likes of which she had never seen outside a Renaissance faire. A battered pouch strung on a thin belt of worn leather nestled against his hip. His tall boots folded down mid calf and were covered in mud… “You get those filthy boots off my carpet right now,” she shrieked. “I just had it cleaned.”

  Faolan winced at her sharp tone. “As ye wish,” he muttered under his breath, and it was when he reached to tug them off that she saw the caked blood.

  “Oh, my God. You’re hurt,” Colleen cried, grabbing his hands and pulling them to look at his abraded wrists. The contact was electrifying, and she sucked in a breath when she glanced up and caught him looking at her with the same intensity. “Don’t move.” Both the carpet and her fear forgotten, she jumped up and ran to the bathroom, returning in moments with a first aid kit. “Get that shirt off,” she ordered, and without a word he shrugged out of it.

  Her mouth went dry at the sculpted muscles of his arms and chest covered in a light pelt of black curls. No steroids in this farm boy - those looked like real muscles. “Now hold still,” she said, wiping down the multitude of cuts and abrasions with antiseptic. She made a sound of sympathy at the crisscross of welts and cuts. “What on earth got hold of you?”

  Her stoic patient sucked in a sharp breath when she cleaned a deep, encrusted gash on his shoulder and she immediately apologized. “I’m sorry, it’s just…”

  Faolan shook his head. “Yer hands are gentler than most, Princess. Yer ministrations are welcome.”

  Colleen colored at his flattering words. “I’m not a princess. I manage a gift shop at the museum,” she corrected, focusing her attention on cleaning the gaping wound. “This one may need stitches,” she said.

  “In my eyes, ye are a princess,” Faolan murmured softly. “Mayhap even an angel.” He brushed a strand of hair from her eyes then turned a critical eye to gauge for himself how bad the cut was. “No need to worry, it’ll mend itself right enough,” he said with a nonchalant shrug. “Have ye skill with a needle? Ye could stitch–”

  “Oh, no I couldn’t, either,” she assured him without hesitation, blanching white at the mere thought of sticking a needle in his flesh, whatever the reason.

  He threw back his head and laughed at her adamant squeamishness, and her entire body reverberated with the warm, rich sound. Leaning in closer, his lips stopped just short of brushing hers. “How can I repay yer kindess…” he began then suddenly grabbed her by both arms and held her still, searching her eyes.

  Colleen struggled in vain against the unexpected vice like grip. “Let me go,” she hissed.

  “Steady, lass,” he soothed. With one large hand he reached inside her robe and curled his fingers around the necklace, raising it to his eyes. “Ye have my amulet,” Faolan whispered in a subdued voice, “and I’m guessing I know now how I got here. What I’d like to be knowing is how ye came by it.”

  Colleen gasped at the intimate contact and huffed, “My grandmother gave it to me.” Well, she hoped she huffed. His touch was actually a lot more exciting than she wanted to admit and she wasn’t quite sure if she was ready for him to let her go. He released both her and the amulet. It fell back to her chest, hot against her tingling skin. “What does my necklace have to do with anything?”

  With an enigmatic smile Faolan said, “Ye wished on it and now here I am, yers to command as ye will, Princess.”

  He picked his shirt up, shook it out and slipped it over his head while Colleen tried to work her way through the cryptic comment. “Who are you?” she asked again. His stomach rumbled in answer and they both stared down at it. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” she frowned, her tone a little less sharp than before.

  “Days,” he admitted. “Been living on dry bread crusts and water for at least a sennight. I was actually….em…in the process of being hung when ye called. Yer timing was most fortuitous.” He actually had the nerve to grin at that admission.

  “Hung? As in from the neck until dead?” she cried, jumping back. “What did you do?” His large hand shot out to catch her ankle as she scrambled to get away from him, squeaking in alarm and swatting at his hand to free herself.

  “I spurned the attentions of the wrong lady and she took enough offense to accuse me of witchcraft,” Faolan confessed in a rush. “Naught more than that.” He gave her another smile. “Ye have my word, freely given, I’ll no’ harm ye.” When she relaxed and stopped struggling, he released her ankle, spreading his hands in a gesture of peace. Refocusing on his injuries, he worked his shoulders gingerly to stretch the muscles. “My gaolers were less than charitable. Most of these,” he indicated the cuts, “are the result of their tender mercies.”

  Colleen collected herself and gave him a tentative smile back. “I don’t know why I trust you’re telling the truth, but I do,” she said. “Of course, if I find out you’re lying, you’ll be back in jail before you know what hit you, got it?”

  Faolan gave her a solemn nod of acquiescence. “Got…it.” The phrase sounded odd on his tongue.

  “Good.” Colleen kept her eyes trained on the strange man. It’s a dream, just go with it. Her ingrained from birth Southern hospitality surfaced, and Colleen got down to the serious business of being a good hostess in spite of the bizarre situation. “Okay, your clothes are filthy, you’re starving and your cuts are clean but what you really need is a bath. Which do you want first?”

  His eyes closed and a soft smile crossed his face. “I was right. ’Tis an angel ye are. Were ye to permit me a bath first, I would be forever in yer debt.” He rubbed the rough stubble on his jaw, obviously several days worth. “This itches like the very devil.”

  “Shower it is, then,” she said, getting to her feet. She reached out her hand to assist him up, and when he clasped it in his own, a tangible charge of electricity ran through both of their bodies. She stared down at it in shock before yanking hers back. Aghast at her own rudeness, she glanced up to meet his eyes…and up…and up. “My God, how tall are you?” she squeaked once he had risen to his full height.

  “Aye, well,” Faolan laughed. It came out as weel in his soft burr. “Tall enough, I reckon. As ye can see, my feet just barely reach the floor.”

  Deciding to let her slight go unmentioned, Colleen led him to the large master bath where he cast a doubtful glance at the small bathtub. “Shower’s here,” she busied herself getting the nice guest towels–never been used–from the bathroom linen cabinet, “shampoo, conditioner and liquid soap are on the rack. It’s sensitive skin, hope that’s okay.” She pulled a new toothbrush and disposable razor from the drawer and laid them next to the sink. “I don’t have shaving cream, so you’ll have to use soap. Drop your dirty clothes outside the door and I’ll throw them in the washer.” The next hurdle presented itself as she took in–what a magnificent chest–his size. “What are you going to put on, though?” she thought out loud then assured him, “Don’t worry, I’ll find something.” And with that she turned and left the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

  Colleen returned to the living room and turned off the TV, replacing the DVD in its case. Surveying the irreparable damage to her coffee table, she remembered Marc had picked it out and decided for that reason alone she didn’t care about its loss. It was only moments later before she was inexplicably drawn back to the bathroom. It was silent as a tomb inside. Waiting outside the door, she listened for several long heartbeats before calling through. “Mr. MacIntyre? Is everything all right?”

  “Nay, not really,” came the mournful reply.

  Colleen knocked on the door t
hen cracked it open to find him still fully dressed and standing in the center of the bathroom with the frustration evident on his chiseled features. “Where are the buckets? Where do ye draw water? I’m not…I doona ken all this,” Faolan snapped, waving his hand around impatiently.

  She gave him a long, hard look. “Can I ask you a really stupid question?”

  “If ye feel ye must,” he muttered under his breath, glaring sideways at the faucet handles as if he half expected them to bite.

  “When you left…wherever you were…what year was it?” She held her breath, waiting for the perfectly reasonable answer that would make all of this seem a little more …a little more what? More believable, less surreal, more plausible, less B movie, or any combination of the above would be fine.

  “The year 1403. I was in Alba,” Faolan replied absently, opening the linen closet to continue his search for the elusive buckets. His eyes widened as he ran his fingers over the towels and sheets inside. “Soft,” he murmured. He moved past Colleen and returned to the sink. He took a deep breath and gave one of the handles a quick turn, jumping when the water came pouring out. At once, he dropped to his knees to yank open the cabinet doors beneath the sink, rapping the exposed PVC tubes with his knuckle. “And this mayhap draws the water in?” He didn’t give her time to answer. “That would mean,” he said, rising to his feet, “that all these…pipes…are somehow connected to a well, mayhap behind the walls…” He knocked against the flowered wallpaper, listening for hollowness.

  Faolan’s attention was drawn to a wall switch near the mirror, and when he gave it an experimental jiggle, the row of round incandescent bulbs atop the vanity mirror went off, plunging the room into darkness. He muttered something unintelligible under his breath, flicked the switch again then gasped and blinked. He stared at the bright lights in disbelief. “And what manner of candles are these?” he whispered, reaching up to touch one before Colleen could stop him. With a muttered oath, he yanked his burnt fingers back and stuck the offended digits into his mouth.

  “Here,” Colleen sighed in exasperation. She grabbed his hand and shoved it under the running water. A soft sound of relief escaped his lips when the cold water eased the burning and when he smiled at her concern, his response to her question sunk in.

  Alba? Scotland! “Well, that explains everything,” she said with an air of nonchalance she in no way felt. That confirmed it. She was dreaming. Tomorrow morning when she woke up, she’d write it all down and sell it as a fantasy. Who could play him in the movie? Liam Neeeson might be tall enough, maybe Gerard Butler.

  “Indoor plumbing–amazing invention.” She reached in and turned on the shower; he jumped back in alarm. “Don’t try and wedge yourself into that little tub. There won’t be any room for the water and God knows you need it. No offense. The shower’s better. Use this first then this,” she handed him the bottles of shampoo and conditioner, “on your hair. The soap is in the white bottle up there.” She patted the closed toilet lid and said, “This replaces the…what’s the word…garderobe, and don’t even think about sticking anything in these,” she said, pointing to one of the electrical wall outlets. She decided he was either a very good actor or he really had never seen anything like this before judging from the astonished look on his face.

  A seductive grin curved his lips. “I thank ye, lady,” he said, casting a longing look at the hot water steaming up the bathroom. He deliberately wet his lower lip with the tip of his tongue, giving her a look that rivaled the temperature of the water. “That’s a lot of water for just one man,” he said in a deep, sexy purr.

  “I’ll just leave the fresh clothes outside the door,” she gulped, backpedaling out when he began tugging at the lacings on his pants with slow movements calculated to draw her eyes right to his… She yanked the door closed with a solid thunk, snorting at the definite male chuckle on the other side. After a moment, it cracked opened just wide enough for a large hand to drop the dirty clothes as she had directed.

  A gorgeous but exceedingly strange man appeared out of nowhere and was now naked in her shower, rubbing her soap all over a very impressive collection of muscles. She shivered and paused for a moment to catch her breath then began going through the dresser drawers in her bedroom. She rummaged through her winter drawer, looking for the sweats she knew were in there. He was definitely going to put one-size-fits-all to the test. She found the old gray pair of XL drawstring sweatpants she lounged around in and an oversized Universal Studios t-shirt. She draped the clean pants and shirt over the handle then hesitated. After a moment she put her ear to the bathroom door and smiled, hearing her new guest humming happily in a rich baritone while he splashed around in the shower.

  Colleen picked up the pile of clothes and headed for the small laundry room just off the kitchen, grabbing the large muddy boots on the way. Upon further inspection, the ripped and bloodied shirt was set aside as a lost cause. She searched inside the odd pants for laundering instructions for several minutes before she caught herself and laughed. “Of course there aren’t any. They were made what, six hundred years ago?” Her laughter sounded strained even to her own ears. She checked the worn leather bag for ID but found nothing inside but a few bits of dried, broken leaves. The boots, she was happy to discover, weren’t as filthy as she originally thought. A bit of hot water from the laundry room sink to wash off the fresh mud and loosen the dried, and she was able to towel them off and pronounce them clean in relatively quick order.

  Where was she going to put him? Colleen fretted, nibbling her lower lip. Guest room! With a heavy boot in each hand, she darted to her spare bedroom, still piled high with the boxes she hadn’t gotten around to unpacking after the divorce. Some days she kicked herself for not keeping the large house she and Marc had purchased right before his infidelity became front page news, but overall, the condo they once shared was much more affordable on her less than stellar salary.

  Turning on the light, she peered in and for the hundredth time regretted the just moved in motif the room bore. Too late to worry about that now, she sighed. Dropping the cleaned boots next to a tall stack of taped liquor boxes, she rushed back to the kitchen to worry about dinner. Colleen took a fast inventory of her groceries to see what she could whip up for him to eat. She came to the conclusion that if TV dinners were good enough for her, they were good enough for him, considering he dropped in–literally–unannounced. She chuckled at the thought and set the table for her guest. She needed to keep moving and busy or else she’d likely start screaming. She giggled again, clapping her hand over her mouth to catch the nervous sound.

  After the kitchen table was set to her satisfaction, Colleen tackled the shredded remnants of her coffee table. Grabbing two large garbage bags from under the sink, she placed one inside the other before shoving the larger pieces of the coffee table into it. Tying it as best she could, she dragged it over to the door to be taken out to the dumpster the next morning. Her mind was wandering in far left field when a bizarre thought occurred to her. Mentally she heard the voice of Rod Serling. “Submitted for your approval–the curious case of Colleen O’Brien and the gorgeous time traveling Scot who landed in her living room. Clapping a hand over her face, she took a deep breath. “My head is going to explode,” she muttered.

  When enough time had passed that she began worrying about what he was getting up to in there, Faolan emerged from the steaming bathroom with a little boy at Christmas smile. “By Christ, ‘twas truly a wonderful thing.” He laughed. “I think this is the cleanest I’ve ever been.” He ran his hand over his freshly shaven jaw. “I found the razor to be most effective. Much better than a knife blade, but Jesú it is sharp.”

  She smiled at his obvious enjoyment. “I think you’re going to need some new clothes, though.” The gray sweats fit his lean hips, but were lacking in length, catching him about mid calf. The cotton t-shirt stretched taut over his broad chest. His wet hair had been combed away from his face and hung well below the middle of his back. Colleen quick
ly averted her eyes, lest he catch her staring at him. Easily six and a half feet tall, two hundred fifty pounds and even better looking clean shaven, he filled the doorway with his muscular body. Colleen felt positively tiny next to this man.

  Rod continued his monologue inside her head. Watch as we follow Colleen on her descent into madness, he urged the audience. She gave a start at the internal intrusion and cleared her throat. “Let’s get you something to eat, Mr. MacIntyre,” she said.

  “Faolan, please,” he said. He followed her to the kitchen, taking the seat she directed him to.

  Opening the freezer and peering inside Colleen said, “All I’ve got are TV dinners. Anything special you’re in the mood for?”

  She turned to find he had slipped up behind her and was staring into the freezer, mouth agape. “It’s so cold,” he marveled, touching a fingertip to one of the frozen shelves. With an indulgent smile, she gave him a quick tour of the kitchen appliances then returned to the freezer. “Which do you want?” she asked again, gesturing to the stack of frozen entrees.

  With a bleak smile, Colleen watched the spoils of her grocery trip the day before disappear into the bottomless pit of Faolan MacIntyre. Bite by ravenous bite, he polished off every single one of the frozen dinners, all but one of the desserts–“Food shouldn’t be that shade of green, lass,” he had remarked about the key lime pie–half a loaf of bread with most of a jar of peanut butter, two of the apples, and all of the milk. When at last he sighed contentedly and leaned back in his chair, Colleen relaxed. “You’re going to need to get a job if you always eat like that,” she pointed out. “I can’t afford to feed you.”

  Faolan threw back his head and roared with laughter. “I’m naught but a growing lad,” he said, “but I am able to pay for my lodgings, Princess.” He glanced around the kitchen. “Where are my clothes, lady? I had a small bag with me.”