His shoulders shook harder.
“So, Mr. Druid-turned-dark-sorcerer, we’re in a bit of a fix. Think you can get us out of here?”
He tossed back his head and laughed out loud. The deep sound rumbled from his chest, echoing in the warehouse.
“Did you hear that?” From a few aisles away, Stone-face sounded scandalized. “There’s a man in here with her! How in the world did that creature get a man in here with her?”
Cian flashed Jessi a cocky, sexy smile that couldn’t have been more full of himself. It was the smile of a man who knew his power and thoroughly enjoyed having it.
“Aye, I can. Just you sit back, woman, and relax. I’ll take care of everything.”
Jessi had no doubt that he could. And, damn, but she liked that in a man.
* * *
>16
Scotland: bounded by the Atlantic, the North Sea, and England; approximately half the size of its neighbor; comprised primarily of moors, mountains, and seven hundred and eighty-seven major islands, including the Shetlands, Orkneys, and the Inner and Outer Hebrides.
Jessi’s sticky memory made her a lint brush for facts.
She knew that if one were to draw a straight line from the far south of the rugged country to the far north of it, it was a mere 275 miles, although its coastline covered a scenic 6,200 miles.
She also knew that the true collision of England and Scotland had predated the clash of politics and hot tempers by some 425 million years, when continental drift had caused Scotland—previously part of a landmass that had included North America—and England—previously part of Gondwana—to collide into each other, not far from the current political boundary.
A historical treasure trove, Scotland was close to the top of a lengthy list of places Jessi had long wanted to see, along with Ireland, Germany, Belgium, France, Switzerland, and all of what had once been part of ancient Gaul where the P-Celts had so passionately lived and loved and warred.
Still, she reflected, swerving to avoid a pothole in the meandering, single-lane dirt road, she’d never imagined she’d make it to Great Britain so soon.
And certainly not as a hunted fugitive, in the company of a ninth-century Highlander, driving a big black stolen SUV into the Highlands.
Cian was back in the mirror now, and being downright pissy about it.
She wasn’t. She was relieved that it had sucked him back in so soon after he’d used Voice to escape the airport and commandeered their “rental” vehicle.
Twice now, she’d nearly given him her virginity. In fact, had they not been interrupted, she would have either time.
She didn’t understand it. She was a woman who did nothing without a solid, well-thought-out reason. She knew the largest part of why she hadn’t slept with a man yet was because she’d watched her mother go through four husbands. She had three sisters, fourteen stepsiblings (some of them step-steps from the man’s earlier marriage), a bad case of cynicism, and an intense need for commitment as a result.
She adored her mother, and if anyone dared criticize Lilly St. James, Jessi would slice and dice ’em. Nobody put down her mom.
She even liked all of her stepsiblings.
But she hated having such a complicated family; it was one of the reasons she’d left Maine for Chicago and stayed there, preferring long talks on the phone every Sunday with Lilly to being fully consumed by the chaos that was the St. James household. Though not currently married, her mom was dating again, and sometimes that was worse than suddenly getting a few extra brothers and sisters who borrowed clothing and car keys with teenage impunity.
Birthday dinners and graduations inevitably turned into scheduling disasters. Holidays were a nightmare. Jessi would never be able to fathom her mom’s idea of marital commitment. A commercial realtor, Lilly treated the sacred vows of matrimony like any of her other “deals”: a short-term contract with an option to renew—that she rarely exercised.
Jessi was getting married once. Having babies with one man. Three or four kids would be just fine; maybe a boy and two girls who would never suffer any confusion about who they were related to, and how, not to mention the often-baffling whys. Her mom had picked a few strange ones from the parade of boyfriends.
Jessi wanted a small, insular, well-tended world. The fewer people one tried to love, Jessi believed, the better one could love them. She was a quality girl, not a quantity one.
Yet, with Cian MacKeltar, all her well-thought-out prequalifiers for relationships went sailing right out the window.
He looked at her—she got wet.
He touched her—she melted.
He kissed her—her clothing started coming off.
She couldn’t come up with a single reason for it. Yes, he was sexy. Yes, he was pure male and—so what if it wasn’t in keeping with the current feminist movement that seemed to prefer emasculated men—she liked manliness in a man. Liked them a little rough around the edges, a little untamed. Yes, he was fascinating, and she really couldn’t wait to get him somewhere that she could pick his brain about the ninth century, and find out just what had happened to him eleven centuries ago.
But he was also a logistic impossibility.
He was currently living in a mirror. He was a sorcerer with a blood-grudge against another sorcerer. And he was way older than she was.
He wasn’t the marrying kind. Not even the keeping kind. And she knew it.
But despite all that, whenever he touched her, she instantly began de-evolving into one of her primitive ancestors, driven by the three basic prime directives: eat, sleep, have sex. Though if she were going to line those directives up in the order she would enjoy them, it would be sex first, while she felt skinny and her tummy was at its flattest, then food with lots of decadently sedating carbs, then sleep. Then wake up and have sex again, with the added benefit of working off some carbs. So she could eat again.
But that was neither here nor there.
Here was a man she couldn’t seem to keep her hands off of.
And no doubt when he came out of that mirror, they were going to fall on each other again. And she wasn’t going to be able to count on an interruption way up in the desolate hills where he was taking her, unless a meteor were to serendipitously plummet from the sky, or they were overrun by marauding sheep.
“I’m sliding again, lass,” came the disgruntled growl from the seat beside her. “Naught but a view of the ceiling over here.”
Jessi slowed and pulled over to the side of the road. When they’d gotten into the SUV, Cian had originally positioned the mirror across the two back rows of seats, then slid into the front passenger’s seat. But when the Dark Glass had reclaimed him less than an hour outside of Edinburgh, en route to Inverness, he’d instructed her to push the front seat back as far as it would go—which was pretty far in the roomy SUV—tug the looking glass forward, prop it at an angle, and strap it in with the seat belt so he could see where they were going. I’m uncertain of the terrain, lass, he’d told her. I know where I want to go, but I doona ken how it will look after the passage of so much time. There will be roads and buildings and such that weren’t there before; however, I should be able to identify the mountains if I can get a good-enough view.
Unfortunately, the seat belt was designed to hold a person with assorted person-sized bumps and lumps, not a flat mirror, and the glass kept slipping down into a more horizontal position. If she’d had a single piece of luggage, she might have crammed it at the base of the frame, on the floor, but as it was, they were traveling outlaw-light. The only things in the SUV were three empty fast-food bags from the lunch they’d grabbed at the airport and a handful of maps and pamphlets he’d snatched from a newsstand while leaving.
As she leaned over to adjust it yet again, he muttered something in that mysterious language of his, and suddenly a book tumbled out of the mirror, narrowly missing her nose, followed by several more. She ducked out of the way. She’d broken her nose once already, that day at the climbing gym, and it
was crooked enough, tipping slightly to the left.
“Wedge them at the base,” he commanded.
She blinked. “You have books in there?”
“I’ve accumulated a few items over the centuries. Things I believed Lucan wouldn’t miss. Once stolen and in transit, when the opportunity presented itself, I picked up still more.”
She arranged the books at the foot of the mirror, laying them end to end, gawking at the titles: Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time; Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary of the English Language; Pliny’s Natural History; The Illustrated Encyclopedia of the Universe; and Geographica, a massive book of maps and charts.
“Like a little light reading, huh?” she muttered. Personally, she went for Janet Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum series (she was a Ranger-girl herself) or any Linda Howard book, on those rare occasions she got to read for pleasure. Which was like once a year.
“I have endeavored to keep up with the passage of the centuries.”
She glanced into the mirror. After seeing him in the flesh only a short time ago, it was weird to be seeing him as a one-dimensional, flat figure in the glass. She didn’t like it at all. She was beginning to resent that mirror. Resent that it could take him back anytime it wanted to. She shook her head. A few minutes ago she’d been glad it had reclaimed him. Now she was irritated that it had. Would she ever be of a single mind around him? “For the day you’d finally be free? That’s why you kept up?”
He stared down at her, burnt-whisky gaze unfathomable. “Aye.”
Free. After eleven centuries, the ninth-century Highlander was going to be free in a little over two weeks. “Seventeen more days,” Jessi breathed wonderingly. “God, you must be climbing the . . . er, walls . . . or whatever’s in there, huh?”
“Aye.”
“So, just what is in there, anyway?” She tested the glass by shaking it gently, and deemed it secure enough. It shouldn’t slide now.
“Stone,” he said flatly.
“And what else?”
“Stone. Gray. Of varying sizes.” His voice dropped to a colorless monotone. “Fifty-two thousand nine hundred and eighty-seven stones. Twenty-seven thousand two hundred and sixteen of them are a slightly paler gray than the rest. Thirty-six thousand and four are more rectangular than square. There are nine hundred and eighteen that have a vaguely hexagonal shape. Ninety-two of them have a vein of bronze running through the face. Three are cracked. Two paces from the center is a stone that protrudes slightly above the rest, over which I tripped for the first few centuries. Any other questions?”
Jessi flinched as his words impacted her, taking her breath away. Her chest and throat felt suddenly tight. Uh, yeah, like, how did you stay sane in there? What kept you from going stark raving mad? How did you survive over a thousand years in such a hell?
She didn’t ask because it would have been like asking a mountain why it was still standing, as it had been since the dawn of time, perhaps reshaped in subtle ways, but there, always there. Barring cataclysmic planetary upheaval, forever there.
The man was strong—not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. A rock of a man, the kind a woman could lean on through the worst of times and never have to worry that things might fall apart, because a man like him simply wouldn’t let them. She never met anyone like Cian before. Twenty-first-century society wasn’t conducive to churning out alpha males. What did a man have to hone himself on nowadays, test himself against, build character on? Conquering the latest video game? Buying the right suit and tie? Smacking little white balls around a manicured garden with ridiculously expensive sticks? Doing battle over the parking space nearest the store?
“Nope,” she managed. “No other questions.”
Eleven centuries of captivity. Hung on his hated enemy’s study wall. Eleven centuries of not touching. Not eating. Not loving. Had he had anyone to talk to?
Her face must have betrayed her thoughts, for he startled her by saying softly, “ ’Tis no longer of consequence, lass, but thank you for the compassion. ’Tis nigh over. Seventeen more days, Jessica. That’s all.”
For some reason his words brought a sudden hot burn of tears to the backs of her eyes. Not only hadn’t eleven centuries turned him into a monster, he was trying to soothe her, to make her feel better about his imprisonment.
“You weep for me, woman?”
She turned away. “It’s been a long day. Hell, it’s been a long week.”
“Jessica.” Her name was a soft command.
She disobeyed it, staring out the window at the rolling hills.
“Jessica, look at me.”
Eyes bright with unshed tears, she whipped her head around and glared at him. “I weep for you, okay?” she snapped. “For eleven centuries stuck in there. Can I start driving again or do you need something else?”
He smiled faintly, raised his hand, and splayed his palm against the inside of the silvery glass.
Without an ounce of conscious thought, her hand rose to meet his, aligning on the cool silver, palm to palm, finger to finger, thumb to thumb. And though she felt only a cold hardness beneath her palm, the gesture made something go all warm and soft in her heart.
Neither of them spoke or moved for a moment.
Then she glanced hastily away, fished a napkin from the fast-food bags, blew her nose, shifted into drive, and resumed their winding ascent into the rugged Scottish Highlands.
Gloaming in the Highlands.
It had taken him most of the day to find the caves he’d played in as a lad.
The terrain had changed greatly over the past thousand years, and new roads and homes had made it difficult to recognize landmarks he’d once thought immutable and uniquely unmistakable. Even mountains looked different when one was gazing up at them from the busy streets of a city, as opposed to regarding them across a wide-open expanse of sheep-dotted field.
Unwilling to permit her to enter the caves until he had a chance to explore them for potential animal or erosive threats, he’d bade her prop the mirror securely next to the entrance to the stone lair so he could keep close watch on the vista around her. Armed with knives and guns, he was prepared for any threat, though he truly doubted one would come this evening, or even the next.
Now, from high atop a rugged mountain, Cian stared out of the Dark Glass at two of the loveliest sights that had ever graced his existence: Scotland at a fiery dusk and Jessica St. James.
His beloved country made a worthy backdrop for the woman.
Sitting cross-legged, facing him, scarce a foot beyond his glass, her short, glossy black curls were backlit by flaming crimson and gold, her forehead and cheekbones dusted burnt rose, her lips plush red velvet. Pretty white teeth flashed when she smiled, her eyes lit with an inner fire that nigh matched the sky behind her when she laughed.
She’d been laughing often as they’d talked. She was a woman who seemed able to find something humorous in nearly all things, even her own grim lot right now, which was a warrior’s strength in Cian’s estimation. Fear accomplished nothing. Nor did regret—sweet Christ, he knew that. All the regret in the world wouldn’t change a damn thing now. Not what had been. Nor what would be.
Still, humor and tenacity could frequently see one through the most difficult of times, and she possessed both in spades.
At his urging, she’d been telling him about her trials and tribulations while trying to reclaim his mirror at the airport.
When she grew excited about one part or another, she spoke with her hands, accompanying her words with gestures, and her fingertips would brush his glass. He was so physically attuned to her that it gave him the kiss of a shiver each time, as if she were brushing her fingers against him, not a cool mirror.
For the first time in over a millennium, he got to watch the night take his Highlands—a thing he’d missed fiercely—yet he found himself savoring even more listening to Jessica’s tale, laughing at the images she painted for him. He could see this wee hellion vaulting over the counter
, bashing the contrary woman, and stuffing her in a closet. There was a bit of a heathen inside Jessica St. James.
It was just one more thing he liked about the lass, he thought, smiling faintly.
He stared, drinking her in, his smile fading. She had his plaid draped around her shoulders, and was snuggled into its warmth as the sun worked its way slowly down to kiss the dark ridge of mountains filling the horizon. It did something to him, seeing her in his tartan. Though it wasn’t the Keltar weave or colors, only a bit of Scots-woven cloth he’d swiped centuries ago, heartsick for his home, he still thought of it as his. ’Twas as if she belonged in it. Crimson and black suited her well. She was a vibrant woman, fashioned by a generous creator of bold jewel tones: jade and raven and rose and skin of sun-kissed gold.
They’d been talking for some time now. For the first time since they’d cast their lots together, all manner of calamity was not erupting around them. He could do nothing further to ensure her safety at this time from inside the mirror, so he’d seized the opportunity to learn more about Jessica St. James.
Where had she grown up? Did she have clan? How many, who, and where were they? What was she learning at her university? What kind of things did she one day dream of doing?
I’m learning about digging in the dirt, she’d told him with a cheeky smile, and that’s what I one day dream of doing. Once she’d explained what she really meant, he realized ’twas but another thing that drew him to her. She was curious as a Druid about things. In his mind’s eye he could see her toiling in the soil for treasures of the past, delightedly unearthing pottery shards and bits of armor and weapons. Och, Christ, how he’d like to be there beside her while she did it! To tell her stories of those things she found and, later, take her beneath him and show her another real, live artifact.
If she could have anything in the world, he’d asked her, what would it be?
Beyond the Highland Myst Page 194
