Later that day, he shifted metal hooks to the side, searching for his size in this trading center he’d learned was called a men’s clothing store. In the week since he’d arrived in this metropolis called San Francisco, he’d been dizzy from everything he faced. And had to learn. At least the weather had turned warmer after that first day—almost as warm as summer.
His personal trade assistant, a very cheerful man, pulled out a pair of dull blue trousers called jeans. “These will look perfect on you, trust me.”
Connall nodded. “I trust you. My thanks.”
“I’ll add these to your stack, then.” He marched away to the small room where they expected people to try their clothes on before purchasing. If Connall concentrated hard enough, the magic let him know what was expected. But it was hard concentrating today when all he could fix on was the lovely lass he’d met with earlier.
Ashley.
Tomorrow, they’d meet again, he assured himself.
He tested the fit of the jeans in the tiny room and looked in the marvel of a mirror. Why men wanted to cram their pride into these tight monstrosities he’d never know, but he was tired of all the staring as he walked around this forsaken land in his kilt. He was the only man wearing one; it emphasized that he didn’t belong here. With his new garments selected, he turned to the wooden door and gripped the handle, concentrating. Pay with the black card at the long table.
Before Connall had left, Mungan explained the spell would match his wealth, belongings, and knowledge with the land’s equivalent. If it wasn’t for that and his new friend Emperor Norton, he’d have been lost.
Connall nabbed the clothes he wished to take from the store and strode to the table. His trade assistant beamed. “Did you decide on anything?”
“Aye.” He slung the jeans and several shirts onto the table and pulled out his black American Express card. His ten cows back home allowed him much here in this land, it seemed. Now, he’d have a fresh change of clothes to meet Ashley.
Anticipation and a sense of rightness suffused him as he stuck the card in the slot of the tiny device on the long table. Soon he’d be meeting his future wife, and all would be well—the hard part was over. No more clomping around this sharp, smelly place.
…
Ashley paused at the street corner and squinted into the gray clouds covering her city. Was she really about to do this? Step inside that coffee shop?
She rubbed her palms down her thighs and pulled in a deep breath. The truth was, she couldn’t stop thinking about him.
No. It wasn’t him. It was the job. One in Scotland, and the escape it represented that had her hot and bothered—not the sexy Scotsman.
Butterflies dancing in her stomach, she marched up to the mom-and-pop coffee shop and pushed open the door. A chime sounded overhead, and she immediately found him sitting at the old-fashioned counter. When the butterflies collapsed in a dead faint, she snorted.
Yeah, right. She wasn’t fooling anyone. It was him she was anxious about seeing again.
He’d been peering around the quaint coffee shop, and when his gaze caught hers, he did a double take and immediately stood.
“You came.” The words were low, but his voice carried to her easily, its effect on her instantaneous—everything inside her perked up, including the butterflies.
Damn, he wasn’t wearing his kilt today, but those jeans molded to his powerful thighs. With him standing there in the tiny shop, it was even more obvious how tall and just…huge he was. An air of authority radiated from him that she rarely encountered. Authority that sat naturally on his shoulders instead of forced there to puff up the owner, like she came across in so many of her past bosses. She could easily see him as a warrior of old, fending off the English in the Highland mountain passes with just his sword.
I need a vacation.
“Of course I came.” Thankfully, her voice didn’t expose her internal chaos.
She slid onto the red vinyl cushion of the soda-fountain style seat, acutely aware of how close he was to her as he settled beside her. And that yummy, masculine scent was not him. It was not. And she’d keep spraying herself with eau de Denial as long as she could, thank you very much.
A puzzled look scrunched his forehead. “I’ve seen others in your land wear such, dangling from their ears.” His large fingers touched the end of her silver earring. “The design reminds me of home. It’s beautiful.”
Wistfulness tinged his voice on the word home, and her body heated with desire and embarrassment—desire because the gesture felt intimate, and embarrassment because she’d worn these particular earrings to get his attention. They were a Celtic design.
“Thank you. I made them.”
His gaze popped to hers. “You are a gifted metal worker. I shall treasure the piece you crafted for me.” He tapped his chest. There, pinned over his heart, was her Celtic sword pin she’d given him yesterday, the tip pointing down. With the flaring, angled points of the hilt, it almost looked like a Star Trek communicator. And with him tapping against it?
“Ha ha, good one.” She tapped her chest. “Beam me up, Scotty.”
Instead of playing along, he frowned at her. Ooookay, not a Star Trek fan.
The waitress rescued Ashley from having to save face. Though her heart beat as fast as a caffeine-fueled coder typed, she said calmly, “I’ll have a coffee with cream and sugar, and that chocolate-chip muffin you displayed right in front of me.”
“Ha. They do look good, don’t they?” The waitress lifted the glass dome and retrieved a muffin with a pair of tongs. She placed it on a white plate and poured a cup of coffee.
“I’ll be having the same,” Connall stated next to her.
Was that relief she detected in his voice?
He slid a black Amex card onto the counter. “Do you take this as your form of barter in this place?” The waitress nodded and stepped away to run his card.
What the hell line of business was this guy in? A black Amex? And did all Scottish people have a strange way of talking?
She blew on her coffee. “So… Scotland, huh? And thank you for the treat.” She lifted her chin and met his gaze, challenging herself not to look away.
He gave a slow nod, and his eyes darted to her mouth and back. He angled his head slightly, his black hair shifting and one braid swinging forward. He could be an Instagram influencer with just his luscious hair.
Keep talking. You are not ogling your potential boss. “How long have you been in San Francisco?”
He blew on his coffee, too, before answering. “Eight nights.”
“That’s all? How are you liking it?”
He looked into his coffee. “Arriving was lonely and strange. I knew no one until I met Mr. Norton and his two dogs.” He said the name with a hint of gratitude, and a cord of sympathy stretched from her to him.
“I don’t have close friends myself,” she whispered. She’d discovered that fact after the scandal of her divorce.
“He stinks, and others seem to shun him, though I know not why.” His nose and forehead wrinkled. “But he was a friend to me when I needed one most.”
Her heart squeezed, and she had the inexplicable urge to put her arm around this stranger who’d found comfort from a homeless man—everyone who lived or worked in this part of the city knew “Emporer” Norton—and seemed perplexed that others shunned such a kind soul.
She swallowed the hot ball of emotion gathering in her throat and sat up straighter, determined to shift the conversation to the reason they met in the coffee shop. “So, about this job…”
“Not sure why ye insist on calling it a job.”
“It entails washing and cooking, your ad said. In exchange for my trip there?” How hard could washing and cooking duties be? Especially if it was just half a day and she could explore the rest of the day.
Explore Scotland.
> Working herself to the bone to pay off her bastard of an ex-husband’s debts, well, she needed a breather. A break. A ray of sunshine to peek through the gray clouds choking her present circumstances. So she’d know all this hard work was worth it.
He was answering her question, but the enormous bicep parked right next to her pulled her focus from his words. How was a girl supposed to think? Well, about anything other than—would it be rude to put her thigh alongside and see which was bigger? Because, honestly, she wasn’t sure if hers was. She nodded along and managed to ask the one thing she wanted to be clear on. “This is just for part of the day, right? Four hours a day?”
She picked up the muffin, but nervousness had taken up all the room in her stomach, so she set it back down.
“Well, that’s much less than the other women in my village, but aye, I might have an idea of other ways you can spend your time.” He gave her a charming wink.
He spun around on the stool and faced her, placing his hands on his knees, his fingers long and strong. It put him more in her personal space, and it was all she could do not to match his movements and face him. He leaned forward, his two braids swinging toward her. “So we’re in agreement?”
She pulled all the giddy parts of her into a tight ball so this feeling wouldn’t control her, and took a deep breath. She could do this. She deserved this. “Yes.”
“Then let us depart.”
“What, now?” She scrambled up, hitching her purse onto her shoulder.
He drew a squiggle on the charge receipt and grabbed his card. “Aye, I’d rather be getting started.”
This was happening so fast. “Okay, but let me pack my things first. I don’t have much.” A part of her wanted to do the responsible thing and ask for time off from the places she worked, but excitement and a daring, brave feeling infused her, which was so rare she wanted to seize it, let it fill her. Let it be her.
And what better way to throw off the bookies than to completely disappear?
…
Connall gripped the sides of the large chariot which ran on tracks without any visible steed to pull it, the wind pushing against his hair, the noxious smell of this metropolis even more odious as it whipped against his skin and into his nose.
Steed or no, this chariot ran as fast as the fleetest horse, and he hung off the side like Ashley and so many others, her long brown hair riding the air, her bearing as strong as any warrior. It took his full concentration to hang on as he watched the stone street whoosh past.
Finally, Ashley said, “This is our stop.”
He concentrated, and the meaning became clear. He readied himself. When the contraption slowed, she hopped off, and he did the same, gratified he landed squarely on his feet. He grinned and looked back as the beast moved on.
“I’m right over here,” she called.
He spun around and glanced up at where she pointed—one of the massive buildings he’d seen but not dared enter.
Ashley pushed hard on a clear door, and he reached over her shoulder to swing it forward for her. A rush of lust tightened his loins as he inhaled her sweet scent.
She seemed unfazed by his closeness, though, and ushered him inside.
“I don’t have a lot. Had to sell most of my belongings after my divorce.” She waved a hand into a large room beyond the smaller one they stood in, filled with jarring colors, beds, and people.
He tensed. Divorce. A way of legally separating from a spouse.
“It grieves me to hear of your marriage dissolution.”
“Well, it doesn’t grieve me.” She stepped over to a bright, shiny wall and pulled open a clever door, a rattling sound emitting from it. He followed, placing his hand on the surface. Coolness met his palm. ’Twas similar to a sword’s material, but thinner.
“Is this where you and your family live?” He took in the clumps of people, aged the same number of winters—most sitting at tables, or on their beds.
“No,” she scoffed, her voice low, her words only meant for him. “I don’t really know any of them. This is just temporary. Till I can get back on my feet.”
“Are ye not standing on those appendages as we speak?”
She cocked her head. “You have an odd sense of humor.”
He frowned but ignored her puzzling assessment because a more pressing issue confronted him. “You live in such close quarters with strangers?” The unnaturalness of it tightened his skin, but then so much of this land and its ways were strange.
She shrugged and pulled a flat, metallic object from a shelf then slid it into her shoulder satchel. Then she pulled a square object made of cloth out from under a bed and began tossing clothes inside.
This was how people lived in this land? Even in his village there was more privacy and space than this. And they all knew and cared for each other. Toiled and celebrated together.
He took in a shuddering breath. And cried together.
The thread of guilt for taking her from her home dissipated. True, she’d agreed to come, but he sensed she wasn’t quite understanding her new role. She kept insisting on calling it a job, as if being married to him would be a chore.
Surely, she would prefer his home. The air was cleaner. His people friendlier. The food better.
She straightened from a crouch and closed the distance between them, and a part of him relaxed as she drew nearer, the larger satchel pulled on ingenious wheels. She smiled up at him, her eyes bright with excitement and a hint of daring, which poked at something deep inside himself. Aye, this was the right thing to do.
“Ready,” she said. “When does our flight leave?”
He returned her smile. “Now.” He grasped her wee hand, and a surge of protectiveness swelled in his chest—she was his responsibility now. His to cherish and protect. For while his home was more pleasant, he was well aware it posed certain dangers.
She startled at his touch but didn’t pull away, and a slight flush pinkened her cheeks. Then he fingered the incised stone in his pocket and uttered the words Mungan had made him memorize. Sealing their fates. Sealing their bond as man and wife.
…
Ashley gripped Connall’s hand hard. Hard enough to cause pain, she was sure, but she couldn’t help it. She was in the middle of some kind of fit, and he was her only lifeline—as if she’d fainted but was still awake, or something, because the room spun, all had gone dark, but she was still awake. What the hell?
Her knees buckled, and sound became hushed, as if her ears were stopped up. But by her temple, Connall’s deep, panty-melting voice murmured, “I have ye.”
“What’s happening?” she whispered.
Then gray seeped into the darkness, and sound rushed back in. She stumbled forward and gasped—and immediately sank to the floor.
No, not floor. Ground. Dirt and grass met her palms.
Where the eff am I?
Chapter Three
Chills slalom-raced down Ashley’s skin, her heart thumping so hard it was an insistent drumbeat in her ears. Gone were the cheerfully painted walls and the strangers she shared the space with. She was outdoors, the sky the muted gray of twilight, the landscape dotted with dead-looking clumps of vegetation and rocks, and in the distance loomed snow-topped mountains.
And no sound.
She put a hand to her forehead. What the—?
She tugged her earlobes and moved her jaw to try to clear her ears.
“What happened? Where am I?” Her voice shook, and even its tentative, thready tones pierced the quiet air. Though, hallelujah, the sound meant she hadn’t lost her hearing. It was just so…quiet. No hum of electricity. No honking of cars. No shouts or laughter. It was almost as if she’d dipped into a pool of water, but even that had its own noises.
Something rustled beside her, and she latched onto the proof of existence like a lifeline. The hot Scotsman strode into view, hi
s large body blocking the mountains and rugged landscape. He waved a hand behind him. “We’re in Scotland.”
He said this as if it should be completely obvious, but there was the matter of how the hell they’d gotten here. Had she blacked out during her fit? Had he drugged her?
“I…I don’t remember traveling. And why are we in the middle of nowhere?” Her heartbeat pulsed in her veins like a living thing, beating out its scared rhythm. What the hell was going on?
Why can’t I remember anything since he held my hand back at the podshare?
He squatted in front of her, concern etching his face. Her skin broke out in goose bumps, because he was wearing a different kind of kilt—not the modern kind, but the big, drapey kind that wrapped around his waist and up over a shoulder—with her pin still on him, holding up the portion over his shoulder. And he was also wearing…oh man, was that a friggin’ sword strapped at his hip?
Er, God, yes. His hand clasped it to keep it angled off the ground, as if it was something he did every day. A thick silver choker, with a gap in the front, circled his neck.
She pulled in a shaky breath.
It’s a dream. I must have passed out.
And he wasn’t the only one who had changed. She wore some kind of tunic dress and a fur-lined mantle. The suitcase was gone, and her laptop bag was now a leather satchel. She put a hand to her head; her hair was in one long braid.
Yeah, her brain decided to go all out. But it was more detailed than any dream she’d had, because despite the fur-lined mantle—nice touch—she was freezing.
He leaned into her space, and she caught a whiff of his maddening, masculine scent. He reached toward her, then dropped his hand to his knee and balled it into a tight fist. “’Twas magic which brought us here. Druid’s magic.” His voice was gentle, soothing. “It’s too late to journey back to the keep, so we’ll make camp here and head there on the morrow.”
Some Like it Plaid Page 3
