Beyond the Highland Myst

by Highlander 01-08

  And she couldn’t see a thing he might have to gain by showing himself and taking the blame.

  In fact, considering that all he wanted to do was to hide for another twenty days so he could have his millennium-old vengeance, he’d probably be happy to end up in the Chicago Police Department’s stolen-goods/evidence lockup. He could hide really well there, under police protection. No, he certainly had no incentive to save her ass.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  She clamped her lips shut, unwilling to risk so much as another peep.

  “Shut the door and bolt it, Jessica.”

  She scrambled over the bed so fast that she fell off the other side. She’d left the entry door cracked, with the security bolt flipped between door and frame when she’d let the woman in. Leaping up from the floor, she hurried to the door, eased it open only as far as necessary to flip the metal latch back in, ducking well back from the line of vision of anyone who might be beyond it, closed it, and secured the lock. She could hear voices murmuring down the hall and footfalls approaching.

  She didn’t bother stepping away from the door. Though she’d been screaming for only a few seconds, she had good lungs and knew how loud she’d been.

  A few moments later there was a firm knock.

  “Is everything all right in there, ma’am?” came a man’s worried voice. “We’re in the room a few doors down and heard you screaming.”

  Her heart hammering against the wall of her chest, she took two slow, careful breaths. “Uh, yeah,” she managed, “I’m fine. I’m sorry I disturbed you.” She forced a shaky, self-deprecating laugh. “There was a spider in the shower and I have a touch of arachnophobia. I guess I kind of freaked out.” She injected what she hoped was a convincing note of embarrassment into her voice.

  There was a silence, then the sound of soft male laughter. “My friends and I would be happy to take care of it for you, ma’am.”

  Men. They could be so condescending sometimes, even when they thought they were only trying to be helpful. She’d never been afraid of spiders in her life. And if she was, that was still no reason to laugh at her. Dead bodies—they threw her. But she was no sissy about bugs. People couldn’t help what they were afraid of. One of her good friends, Cheryl Carroll, was afraid of flowers, and there was nothing funny about it.

  “No, no,” she said hastily, “it’s all right, my husband took care of it.” Say something, she mouthed over her shoulder at Cian.

  “All is well now,” Cian boomed. “ ’Twas good of you to inquire.”

  She scowled at him. All is well. ’Twas? she echoed silently, wrinkling her nose. Could he have sounded more archaic?

  At the sound of another man’s voice, a note of cordial reserve entered her would-be-savior’s tones. “You might want to call the front desk and let them know. There shouldn’t be any bugs in the rooms. My girlfriend hates spiders too.”

  “I’ll do that. Thanks.” Go. Away.

  As the footfalls faded down the hall, she sagged limply against the door. She made the mistake of rubbing her eyes and compounded it by looking at her hands.

  Her lips parted. Breath rushed into her lungs, prelude to a scream.

  “Doona do it, lass,” Cian hissed. “He won’t believe you twice.”

  Pursing her lips, she forced the air back out in small, silent explosions. She puffed short, shallow bursts, as if breathing in a paper bag. I am not going to scream. I am not going to scream.

  “Why did you kill her?” she asked a few minutes later, when she trusted herself to speak.

  “Look in the woman’s hand. I cannot make out what it is, but she meant to harm you with it.”

  Steeling herself, Jessi moved reluctantly back into the room and gazed down at the dead woman. Her left hand was closed around something. Jessi nudged it with her foot. A syringe spilled from her fingers and rolled across the blood-spattered carpet. Jessi shivered.

  “Jessica, try to summon me out.”

  Neither of them expected it to work. It didn’t.

  “Remove the comforter from the bed and cover the body with it.”

  Gingerly, she did so.

  It didn’t help much. Instead of a dead body in the same room with her that she could see, now there was a dead body in the same room with her she couldn’t see, and that creeped her out even more. Everybody knew villains never really died. Just when you thought you were safe, they got up again, eyes terrifying abysses, arms sickly groping for you like in Night of the Living Dead.

  “You will go bathe now, Jessica.”

  She didn’t move. She wasn’t about to go off and get in the shower, only to end up having a Psycho moment.

  “She’s dead, lass. I swear. She was human, nothing out of the ordinary. Now go bathe,” he said in a voice that brooked no resistance. “I will protect you. Go.”

  After searching his burnt-scotch gaze a moment, Jessi went.

  Near dawn on Friday, October thirteenth, Jessi stared into the mirror, blew out an exasperated breath, and muttered the spell to release Cian for the gazillionth time.

  It finally worked.

  Hours had passed since the long, scalding shower she’d taken, using up two entire bars of those little pink soaps.

  Cian had kept her occupied with tales of life in the ninth century. He’d told her of his seven doting sisters, his mother who tried to manage them all, of his eventual attempts to secure them worthy husbands.

  He’d spoken in great, loving detail of his castle in the mountains, and of the rugged bens and sparkling burns surrounding it. It was obvious he’d adored his home, his family, and his clan.

  He’d told her of the heather that grew wild along the hillsides and so fragrantly scented a fire; he spoke at length of the savory Scots meals that he’d been missing for centuries.

  His words had brought the Highlands brilliantly to life in her mind’s eye, and the constant purr of his deep rich burr had soothed. She knew he’d been trying to keep her from going nuts while killing time in a room with a dead body, and it had worked.

  As the shock of yet another attempt on her life and Cian’s swift dispatch of the would-be assassin faded, Jessi faced the cold, hard facts.

  Fact: The woman had intended to kill her. Fact: One of them had to go. Fact: Jessi was glad it hadn’t been her.

  Problem: In a short time, she’d be slinking out of a room that had blood splattered all over it, leaving a dead body in it. Even if they somehow managed to get the body out of the room—and she couldn’t see how they could possibly sneak it from the hotel without being seen—there was no way they could get rid of all the blood.

  Fact: She was now a fugitive.

  That was the fact that could make her nuts. PhD, life, future—all of it gone to hell.

  What was she going to do now?

  She had a sudden, horrible vision of herself at some point in the not-so-distant future, calling her mom from a strange, frightening foreign country where the beetles and roaches were the size of small rats, trying to assure Lilly St. James that she really hadn’t done whatever the police were saying she’d done.

  On top of it all, she didn’t even have clothes to sneak out of the hotel in. Though she’d been able to get some of the blood out of her jeans, her sweater was a lost cause. Though her panties had been salvageable, her bra was not.

  She could hardly walk out into downtown Chicago in the blanket she was wearing. One might be able to pull that kind of thing off in New York City, but not in Shy-town.

  As brilliant golden light blazed from those mysterious runes on the frame, and the sensation of spatial distortion grated across her already frayed nerve endings, she tugged the blanket more securely around her.

  She began to push herself up from where she’d been sitting, cross-legged, on the bed, as far back against the wall as possible, so she could pretend the lump on the floor wasn’t there. Suddenly, he was standing beside her.

  Before she could so much as squeak a protest, he cupped her shoulders, dragged her again
st his body, and kissed her hard, fast, and deep, before dropping her back onto the bed.

  He looked at her a moment, then he plucked her back up and did it again.

  This time he drew her into his arms, one arm around her waist, the other hand palming the back of her head, and kissed her so deeply and passionately that she could have sworn she was throwing off steam, sizzling like an iron on the High Mist/Steam setting.

  She clung to him, taking all he was giving. Sinking into his body, absorbing the steel and heat of the man.

  When he released her this time, she plopped back down on the bed, kissed breathless.

  She felt infinitely better than she had moments ago, as if some of his formidable strength had seeped into her through their kiss. God knew the man had strength enough to spare.

  He stared down at her, his whisky gaze narrowed with desire and something else, something she simply couldn’t quite define; an emotion that eluded her. It almost seemed like regret, but that made no sense to her. What could he possibly be regretting?

  When he lifted his hand and traced the backs of his knuckles up her cheek, slipping his fingers into the short dark curls at her temple, she dismissed the odd thought from her mind. He threaded his fingers through her hair slowly, as if savoring the silky texture of each curl.

  It gave her a tiny chill, the lightness of his touch.

  The man was a walking dichotomy. Those powerful neck-snapping, knife-throwing hands that did murder without pause were equally capable of tenderness and delicacy.

  “Lock the door behind me when I leave, lass. I will be but a short time. Doona open it for anyone but me. Will you obey me?”

  She opened her mouth to ask why, and what he was going to do, and just how he thought they were going to get out of the mess they were in, but he pressed the tip of his finger to her lips.

  “Time is truly of the essence,” he said softly. “I never ken how long I’ll have. ’Tis action that will serve us best here, not words. Will you obey me for the now, Jessica?”

  She blew out a pent breath and nodded.

  “Good lass.”

  She stuck her tongue out and mimed panting like a dog, grasping for any shred of levity she could find.

  He gave her a faint, approving smile. “Keep your laughter, Jessica. ’Tis a saving grace.”

  Her thoughts exactly.

  He turned, scooped up the comforter with its bloody burden, and stalked from the room, closing the door behind him.

  “Lock it,” came the soft, low command from the other side.

  Jessi slid the bolt and flipped the latch. Only then did his footfalls fade down the hall.

  Forty minutes later, Jessi and Cian stepped in tandem from the elevator.

  He was holding her hand, and although she’d never considered herself much of a hand-holder, she thoroughly liked the feel of her small hand in Cian’s big, strong one, and the snug interlacing of their fingers. She felt dainty, girly—actually, more like consummately womanly—beside this man.

  She glanced up at him and inhaled a swift, shallow breath. He was devastatingly attractive. He was wearing faded jeans and a much-washed black Ironman T-shirt. His kilt was tossed over a shoulder, and his knife sheath was strapped blatantly around his thigh, the lethal blade now cleaned and returned to its protective casing. She’d tried telling him he couldn’t wear it that way, that he’d get them arrested. He’d replied that she could save her breath because Cian MacKeltar obeyed no laws but his own.

  She’d not found that particularly surprising.

  His muscular body rippled beneath the thin cotton fabric. With those crimson-and-black tattoos licking up his neck and encircling both powerful biceps, those wicked-looking wrist cuffs, his long braids, and his imposing height and brawn, he looked downright dangerous.

  Considering that the clothing fit him, she wondered how he’d gotten it off of whomever he’d gotten it off of. It must have been one heck of a fight.

  Then there was the matter of the clothing he’d brought her . . . smelling of another woman’s perfume. She had on hip-hugging Lucky jeans (with the cheeky words Lucky You stamped on the inside of her fly) that were X-treme Low Ride—as in, she sure wouldn’t be sitting down with her backside facing a roomful of people anytime soon—and a white, V-necked sweater so snug that it would have revealed every line of her bra.

  If only he’d brought her one.

  Oh, well. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. All she needed to do was get to her car and she could toss a jacket over it.

  When he’d returned to the room and thrust the bundle of clothing into her hands, she’d exclaimed, Where did you get—

  Hush, he’d said instantly. Dress and move. We must accomplish as much as possible as quickly as possible. When the glass reclaims me, we will have time to talk then.

  Okay. She’d shrugged. She knew she couldn’t extricate herself from her current problems. Maybe he could. He’d already managed to accomplish two things she’d not thought she’d had a snowball’s chance in hell of accomplishing: body disposal and clothing procuring. Though she really would have liked a bra. Enthusiastic was hardly an adjective she would have applied to herself at the moment, but parts of her were acting downright perky with every step. She hoped she wouldn’t need to run for any reason.

  The lobby was nearly deserted at this early hour. As they stepped into the long, gleaming foyer, her attention was drawn by a ripped, steroid-bulked man standing at the front desk with his arm around a sultry blonde who didn’t look nearly as distraught as he. Coincidentally, he looked like exactly the kind of guy who might wear an Ironman T-shirt.

  The man was shouting furiously at two desk clerks. Good, Jessi thought. She couldn’t shake the paranoid feeling that any moment now a police officer was going to appear out of thin air and arrest them. Any distraction was a welcome one. Hopefully the clerks would be so busy dealing with the irate brute that they wouldn’t notice her and Cian skulking out. Although, with a six-and-a-half-foot-tall mirror tucked beneath his arm, nothing the six-and-a-half-foot Cian MacKeltar did remotely resembled skulking.

  Cian’s hand tightened on hers. “Hurry, lass.”

  She picked up the pace, jouncing jauntily along.

  “I’m telling you, the man is one of your guests. I watched him go back up on the elevator. The son of a bitch took our clothes!” the man shouted.

  Jessi blinked. Eyed the man and his wife. Glanced down at herself.

  Glanced up at Cian.

  He shrugged. “Not all of them. I left them their undergarments.” When her brows rose, he added, “They were our size. We needed clothing. I suspected they had more, and look, they do. I ran into them in the elevator. Keep walking, lass. Move.”

  They were halfway across the lobby when the man abruptly threw his hands up in exasperation and whirled around.

  Oh no, here it comes, Jessi thought, stiffening. We’re screwed. Now he’ll call the cops. We’re going to jail.

  “There he is!” the man roared furiously. “That’s the prick who made my wife take off her clothes!”

  Jessi noticed the sultry blonde wasn’t looking too terribly upset by it, not nearly as upset as her husband seemed to be. She had a sudden vision of the pretty woman stripping down to her panties and bra in front of Cian and had the weirdest urge to go punch her. As if anything was the blond woman’s fault.

  “You will be silent and cease looking at us. The four of you will turn and face the wall. Now,” Cian said coolly.

  Jessi rolled her eyes. Obviously Cian MacKeltar had been some kind of aristocrat or member of the ruling class in his time. A feudal lord, maybe, perhaps even a relation to one of the ancient Pict kings, or Kenneth MacAlpin himself. He behaved like a tyrannical dictator, expecting the world to obey his slightest whims. Cease looking at us, indeed!

  “Oh, please, you don’t really think they’re going to—” Jessi scoffed, only to break off in stunned disbelief.

  Four people had just turned, as one, to face the wall behin
d the Check-In desk, without uttering so much as another peep. Not a curse, not a protest, not even an ill-concealed, disgruntled sigh.

  She blinked at the bizarre sight. Then gaped up at Cian. Then back at the obedient little sheep.

  “You will not attempt to follow us when we leave,” Cian added. “You will remain silent and unmoving until well after we’re gone.”

  His words reminded her of the way he’d dispatched Mark in the hallway, how he’d ordered the valets about and dominated the desk clerk when they’d checked in.

  How was he doing it? What was Cian MacKeltar?

  “Come, lass,” he said.

  She stood rooted to the ground for a moment, assessing herself suspiciously, trying to decide whether she was feeling, in the least little way, compelled in some strange way to obey him.

  Nope.

  She inched away from him, just to be sure. Tipped up her nose defiantly. Made a face at him.

  Ducky. She felt just like her usual self, chock-full of free will.

  But apparently they weren’t, she thought, looking at people at the desk again.

  “What did you do to them?” she demanded.

  “ ’Twould require a lengthy explana—”

  “I know, I know,” she interrupted peevishly, “and we don’t have time, right? Fine. Just tell me this: Could you make them erase all record of my having been here from their computers?”

  He looked perplexed a moment, then slow understanding dawned in his whisky eyes. “Ah, you mean so you cannot be linked to the blood-stained room! Aye, I can do that. You must direct me, though. There is much about your century that eludes me.”

  They hastened to the desk, where Jessi told him what to do.

  He issued a series of terse commands to the clerks, and Jessi watched in abject fascination as they complied without hesitation, pulling up their files for Room 2112. They rescinded all credit transactions, deleted all records, and wiped her clean from the hotel’s memory banks. Whatever he was doing and however he was doing it, the man packed a serious punch in the charismatic persuasion department.

  There was one great big problem solved. Gone were her visions of oversized beetles and roaches, and calling her mother from some Third-World country.