As they were finishing up, Jessi stepped away from Cian and circled around him to stare at the bodybuilder and his wife. They were motionless, silent, staring at the wall. Their eyes had the same glazed, eerily vacant expression as the clerk’s. Somehow she’d overlooked that before, too, probably because she’d always been too busy looking at the sexy Highlander to really notice much about the people around him.
“What did you do to them? How?”
Tucking the mirror back beneath his arm, he took her hand. “Not now, lass. We must make haste.”
“ ‘Not now,’ ” she grumbled. “How come whenever I have questions, it’s always ‘not now’? Will it ever be now?”
* * *
12
“Can you not make greater haste?” Cian glanced at Jessica over the top of the mirror that was once again propped on its side between the auto’s bucket seats.
He hated not knowing how long he had. It imbued everything with a heightened sense of urgency.
“Only if you can somehow order rush-hour traffic in Chicago on a rainy Friday morning to go somewhere else,” she said with a roll of her eyes, waving a hand at the wall-to-wall cars packing the streets. Then she frowned at him over the mirror. “You can’t, right?”
“Nay. Lass, you must go as fast as ’tis possible. Seize any opportunity to escape this pandemonium.”
Returning to full immersion in his thoughts, he barely heard her sardonic “Aye, aye, sir.”
The second attack had come long before he’d expected it. Truth be told, he’d not expected it at all. Not once they’d checked into her immense “hotel.”
It had made him realize that he was at a tremendous disadvantage in her century, one for which he couldn’t compensate. For, though he’d devoured tomes and papers and incessantly studied the world beyond Lucan’s window—preparing, always preparing for any opportunity to take his chance at vengeance—though he knew of such things as computers and cars and airplanes and televisions, he knew also the world’s current population. And the ninth-century Highlander in him had believed—as far as they’d traveled from her university into the heart of a city of such proportions—that they’d be as difficult to locate as a dust mote in a haystack the size of all of Scotland.
He’d been wrong. Dead wrong.
He simply couldn’t fathom the bird’s-eye view of her world. He might be familiar with the statistics, he might be cognizant of modern inventions, but he couldn’t feel the way things were put together. All the book learning in the world wouldn’t keep a man alive in battle. A warrior had to know and understand his terrain.
And he didn’t.
He needed to get her somewhere he did. Lucan would not take this woman. He would not let the bastard harm so much as a hair on her lovely head. “I doona ken how he found us,” he muttered darkly.
There was a gusty sigh beside him. “I do. I’m a dick,” Jessi informed him glumly.
He glanced over at her, lips twitching. Modern idioms were confounding, but at least he recognized them for what they were. “Nay, lass, I doona see that. Naught about you resembles any portion of my anatomy,” he said playfully, seeking to lighten her mood and prevent her from dwelling on the horrifying scene that had played out so recently in front of her.
He’d never been so frustrated in his life as he’d felt, trapped inside the glass, having to push her, goad her by threatening to let her go to jail to get her to stop screaming, when all he’d really wanted to do was pull her into his arms and gentle her with his body. Take her cries with his kisses, comfort her. Remove the damned offending corpse from her environ.
Instead, he’d told her stories from his childhood to try to take her mind away and help her pass the time. Speaking soft and low, he’s woven what Highland magic for her he could. He’d left out the grimmer memories, those of a lad at a tender ten years of age who’d been responsible for choosing battles and sides and sending men who’d been his father’s closest companions, men who’d been as fathers to him, off to die.
A lad made laird in the Highlands at birth grew up fast. Or lost his clan. Or died. He accepted neither loss nor death easily.
He’d told her instead of summer days of sunshine and heather, of the icy pleasure of a cool loch on a hot day, of tales of his seven bonny sisters and their endless quests for husbands of whom he would approve.
At last, the panicked expression had receded from her eyes. She was no willy-nilly peahen. In fact, by the hour, his estimation of her continued to rise.
She was a fascinating woman.
And not for you, the tatters of his humanity warned.
Nay, not for him, he agreed with those tatters, glad they were tatters and not capable of mounting a compelling argument.
For he would have her. Despite the feeble protests of his honor, he was going to seduce her the moment he got her somewhere safe. He’d known since the night she’d licked him that he was going to make her his woman. Consequences be damned.
Why not? He already was.
Before disposing of the assassin’s body, he’d searched the dead woman thoroughly. She’d carried nothing but weapons. He’d relieved her of a knife and two guns, which were now concealed in his boots.
The woman had not meant to kill his Jessica.
Had she, she would have used one of the guns. He knew a great deal about modern weapons; they fascinated him. He’d long itched to get his hands on a gun and test its capabilities. There was a ninth-century warrior in him that would never lose his love of a good battle and fine armament.
No, the assassin had intended to subdue his woman, not kill her. ’Twas the why of the needle, not the blade or the bullet.
The realization had given birth to a whole new wellspring of hatred for his long-time gaoler. Somehow Lucan had learned of Jessica St. James and wanted her alive. From time to time, Lucan had entertained himself with a woman before the Dark Glass, uncaring if she saw or heard Cian, because the woman didn’t survive to tell of it anyway. Lucan liked to break things. He always had. The harder it was to break, the more he enjoyed it.
But those were dark thoughts. Thoughts from a time that would never be again, for he would never again be owned by Lucan Trevayne. Never again be forced to hang on that bastard’s wall and watch an innocent woman sexually brutalized and murdered.
No matter the price of vengeance. Of freedom.
He’d come to terms with that price long ago.
“Don’t you want to know what I did?” she was saying.
“Aye, I do.” His gaze fixed on her profile. She nibbled her lower lip a moment and it made him abruptly rock-hard at the mere thought of her luscious mouth nibbling on him.
“I used a credit card.” She sounded disgusted with herself. “I know in books and movies the bad guys always track you by credit or ATM transactions, but I thought that was just an exaggeration cultivated by the media to facilitate plot momentum. That if it could really be done, it would take time—like days or a week.” She frowned up at him. “I mean, come on, how powerful is this Lucan-guy that he can find out where I’ve used my credit card within hours of my using it?”
He firmly corralled his lustful thoughts. He needed to understand such matters. They were imperative to his ability to keep her alive and safe from harm. “Explain to me about ‘credit cards,’ lass.” He’d once seen an advertisement on television for such a thing, where club-wielding, painted warriors had poured down in a bloodthirsty horde on someone who’d chosen the wrong card, but he couldn’t begin to see how using such a thing had betrayed them.
When she’d clarified its purpose, and explained the records generated by the use of it, he snorted. Now he understood how Lucan had found them so quickly. Bloody hell—was there no such thing as privacy left in her world? Everything was connected to everything else by those computers of hers. All a man did and said was a matter of public or semipublic record, which was appalling to a mountain man who liked to keep his matters his own. “He’s that powerful, lass. You may not use
such things again. Have you no other form of coin?”
“Not enough to get us out of the country, which is what I’m beginning to think we need to do,” she said gloomily.
Aye, she had the right of that.
The fact that he’d not even known she’d done something that could be traced—revealing them as clearly as an X on a map—because he’d not understood what a credit card was, meant he couldn’t possibly hope to contain their exposure.
Not here, anyway.
Her twenty-first-century world had too many variables beyond his comprehension for him to control.
Which meant he had to take her back in time.
Och, nay, not literally—not through the Ban Drochaid, the stones of the White Bridge that the Keltar guarded; even he gave credence to the legend of the Draghar, having no wish to be possessed by the thirteen evil ancients—but figuratively.
That he could do.
If he could get her deep enough into the Highlands, then he could live with her for the next nineteen days by ninth-century means. Means untraceable by modern methods. He could shelter her in caves, warm her with his body, hunt for food, and feed her with his hands. In the Old Ways, time-honored ways in which a man had once seen to the needs of his woman.
All they had to do was somehow get across an ocean. Quickly and without leaving a trace.
Would Lucan look for him there?
Certainly, once he realized he was no longer in Chicago. Lucan knew him, nigh as well as he knew Lucan.
But there, in the wilderness, Cian would have more of an advantage. Even in the ninth century, Lucan had never been an outdoorsman, eschewing physical exertion in lieu of creature comforts. Och, aye, Cian would have the edge in his hills.
“Tell me everything you know about modern travel,” he commanded. “Tell me about your airplanes, where they go, how often they go, where one may procure one, and how. Tell me in the greatest detail you can. Give me a bird’s-eye view, lass. I need ken it all, even the most minuscule facts you might deem unimportant. I’m a ninth-century man, lass. Teach me as one.”
_______
Near noon, Jessi demanded they stop for food. She was starving. He might not need to eat, being immortal or whatever he was, but she sure did. The first time she’d ordered room service it hadn’t come. The second time, the dishes had gotten splattered by blood. Aside from a PowerBar and a bag of peanuts she’d found in her backpack, she’d had nothing else to eat in the past thirty-six hours.
Since leaving Chicago, Cian had grilled her intensively about everything from transportation to computers to accommodations to monetary transactions.
After listening for a short time, he’d told her that they dare not leave the country from O’Hare or Midway; that if Lucan had men watching for them anywhere, it would be at the two local airports.
Jessi still couldn’t quite believe that they were actually going to try to leave the country, and had no idea how he thought they were going to pull it off.
He’d told her to drive them to the next nearest airport. She didn’t know if Indianapolis really was the next nearest, but it was the only other airport she’d been able to figure out how to get to from a map.
They stopped to eat just east of Lafayette, Indiana, about forty-five minutes up I-65 from the airport.
The smell of deep-fried chicken and fries made her mouth water the moment they stepped inside Chick-fil-A. She always felt like she was doing cows a favor when she ate there; she loved those silly billboards along the highways with their EAT MOR CHIKIN cow campaign. From NEW DIET CRAZE: LOW-COW to EAT CHIKIN CUDDLE COWZ, the ads sporting black-and-white spotted cows clutching poorly penned placards promoting chicken consumption made her laugh out loud every time she drove past one.
I will procure food and we’ll dine in the car, he’d insisted. We must continue moving.
She could just imagine how he planned to “procure” food. He’d probably leave the entire restaurant standing frozen until “well after we are away from here.”
If I eat while driving, she’d disagreed, I’ll wreck. If I wreck, the mirror will probably break. Her legs were stiff, she had to pee, and she was getting grumpy. What would happen to you then?
He’d looked stricken. We’ll dine within.
She’d ordered six baskets of chicken fingers and wedges of crinkly fries, and now, perched at a brightly colored yellow-and-white table, was contently making headway into her second basket. He was halfway through his third.
“These resemble no chicken fingers I’ve ever seen, lass. And I saw a fair amount of chickens in my day. There was this wench in the stables with the most remarkable . . . well, never mind that. You must grow fowl considerably larger now. I shudder to ponder the size of their beaks.”
“They’re not really chicken fingers,” she hastened to explain, not caring for the imagery at all, as she dipped one into a tub of spicy barbecue sauce and snapped off a bite. She was going to stop there, she really was, but her treacherous lips had other ideas. “ ‘Most remarkable’ what?”
“ ’Tis of no import, lass.” He devoured another chicken finger in two bites.
“Then why did you bring it up?” she said stiffly.
“I put it to rest, too, lass.” There went two more fingers.
“No, you didn’t. You left it hanging. Now it’s hanging out there. I hate things hanging out there. Fix it. ‘Remarkable’ what?”
He dipped a potato wedge into ketchup and made short work of it. “Chickens, lass, she had remarkable chickens. What did you think I meant?”
Jessi’s nostrils flared. She glared at him a moment, then looked away. Why did she even care? So, maybe the ninth-century bimbo had had remarkable eyes or legs or something. No way her breasts were better. At that thought, she shrugged her jean-jacket off her shoulders and sat up straighter. And so what, anyway? The bimbo had been dead for eleven centuries. The only thing remarkable about her now was that anyone even remembered her at all.
“Back to the chickens, lass, if they’re not fingers, why are they named thusly?”
“It’s just a catchphrase,” she said irritably, snapping off another bite. “Something some marketing guy came up with to make them more appealing.”
“Your century finds the notion of eating fingers of chickens appealing? What of their toes?”
She took a sip of Coke. The chicken was suddenly dry as sawdust on her tongue. “I don’t think anybody who orders them thinks, for even a minute, about fingers, or toes, any more than they think about little pink chicken nipples when they’re eating chicken breasts—”
She broke off, eyes narrowing. His head was canted down, his hair shielding his face, but she could plainly see his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
The Neanderthal was yanking her chain.
And she’d fallen for every bit of it.
After a moment, she shook her head and snorted. He’d been poking fun not only at her century but himself, in a dry, subtle way. And she’d bought right into the stereotype he’d been feeding her: me-big-and-stupid-archaic-he-man. Her snort became a snicker, her snicker a laugh.
He glanced up sharply, his dark amber gaze fixing on her face. “I hoped to make you laugh,” he said softly. “I’ve not seen much in the way of happiness in your eyes since we’ve crossed paths.”
“No, I don’t suppose you have,” she agreed. “It’s been a bit grim.” They shared a companionable silence for a moment, across the table in Chick-fil-A.
“So was it really her chickens that were remarkable?”
Cian shook his head. “Nay, lass.”
She scowled. “What, then? Come on, you’re the one who brought her up.”
He flashed her a devilish grin. “There was no wench in the stables, Jessica. I but wondered if you’d care.”
Two could push for information, she thought mulishly a short time later as they hastened over soggy, slippery autumn leaves on their brisk walk across the parking lot toward her car. The October breeze ruffling her
short dark hair held the promise of the long, cold midwestern winter to come. The chilly drizzle that had been falling steadily since they’d left Chicago had eased to a mist, but the sky was still leaden with thunderheads, threatening worse rain ahead. She fluffed her short curls back from her face and tugged her jean-jacket closer. In contrast to the cool clime, her temper was hot; she was steamed and humiliated that he’d gotten a rise out of her. She hardly knew the man, and she’d felt a vicious stab of jealousy over him. Twice. In a matter of hours. That wasn’t like her at all. And the fact that she hardly knew the man was really beginning to bother her. She’d accepted that she was going to have to entrust herself to him to survive, but, by God, she wanted to know more about the man that she was entrusting herself to.
Who and what was Cian MacKeltar? And who and what was this Lucan Trevayne person who wanted her dead just because she’d seen his blasted artifact? They were both clearly more than mere men.
As they approached the car, Jessi stopped at the driver’s-side door and scowled across the roof at him.
He arched an inquiring brow.
“I’m not going any farther until you answer a few of my questions.”
“Jessica—”
“Don’t ‘Jessica’ me,” she said peevishly. “Five minutes is all I’m asking for. Surely five minutes won’t get us killed. What are you, Cian?”
He assessed her a long moment, then shrugged one powerful shoulder. “I’m a Druid, lass.”
“ ‘A Druid’?” She blinked. “You mean, as in one of those white-robe-wearing, mistletoe-loving guys that thought they could communicate with the otherworld by performing human sacrifices?” In her area of specialization, she was constantly encountering references to the mysterious, much-maligned priesthood. The famous Lindow Man, a late–Iron Age body found preserved in a Cheshire bog by peat cutters in 1984, evidenced signs of ritual murder and, with mistletoe pollen in his stomach, there’d been much speculation about his possible link with Druids.
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