by Amy Vansant
Broch remained doubled over, pretending to be shaken by Mathe’s blow. When his foe moved forward, he spun to grab him. Caught off guard, Mathe’s evasive maneuver proved ill-timed, and Broch wedged the man’s head into the crook of his elbow, choking him. He turned Mathe so he was facing Fiona.
“Ye see the lassie?” He whispered in Mathe’s ear.
Mathe continued to struggle, so Broch tightened his grip.
“Ah said, dae ye see the lassie there?”
Mathe’s eyes grew droopy, so Broch eased his chokehold. The man’s eyes bulged once more and then darted to his. Broch could feel him attempting to nod in the affirmative.
“Ye see her smilin’?” he asked.
Mathe nodded again.
“She’s smiling fur she git us tae battle, isnae she? Did we hae a quarrel?”
Mathe shook his head.
“Sae dae ye'll want tae keep fightin’ fur her amusement lik’ dancin’ bears, or dae yi'll waant tae halt?”
“Stop,” croaked Mathe.
Broch responded with one sharp nod. “Aye. Guid choice. Ah’m goain tae let ye gae.”
Mathe nodded and Brochan released his grip on the man. Mathe stumbled away with as much aplomb as he could manage. He glared at Fiona and strode to the far side of the clearing, rubbing at his throat.
Brochan walked to Fiona, massaging his own jaw where Mathe had connected with one of his better shots. The amusement had left Fiona’s expression. She looked like a little girl who’d had her favorite toy stolen from her hands.
“Ah’m goan tae gae,” he said.
Her petulant scowl deepened. “Why?”
“Ah shouldnae be ’ere and ah dinnae appreciate bein’ used.”
“Used? What are you talking about?”
Brochan frowned. “Mathe hud na idea whit he wis mad aboot. The wrestle wis yer idea.”
Fiona gaped. “No, it wasn’t. He’s jealous. He’s embarrassed to say—”
Broch turned his back to her and nodded to the others. “Ta, fur yer hospitality. A’m aff tae be headed hame noo.”
The three thieves nodded to him from their various perches, including Mathe, who’d flopped to the ground beside the horses. No one seemed shocked or disappointed by his plans to leave.
He glanced back at Fiona. “Cheers. Guid luck with yer endeavors.”
Brochan strode into the forest, knowing he’d stayed too long. He’d also failed to pay close attention to the path he’d traveled with Fiona upon arriving. Once he felt he had reached the limit of the camp’s view, he paused to find his bearings. Wandering the woods for the rest of the night would be adding insult to injury. He’d already been fooled once.
He had just picked his direction when he heard footsteps behind him. They fell too heavy and regular to be those of a squirrel.
“Show yerself,” he said, tensing for what he suspected might be Mathe’s revenge. The odds Fiona had goaded the wee man into reclaiming his honor weren’t low.
“It’s me.”
Fiona walked from the shadows into a beam of tree-filtered moonlight, striking in the bluish glow of midnight.
She approached until she stood inches from him.
He couldn’t find the will to move.
She placed both her hands on his chest and they stood that way, gazes locked, her palms rising and falling with his breath.
“Don’t go,” she whispered.
He realized what had so bewitched him about her appearance. Her beauty, certainly, deserved attention. But in the dim light, ghostly porcelain skin aglow, she looked like Catriona’s twin.
He put a hand on each of her hips. She took it as an invitation and rose onto her toes to kiss him. The moment before her lips touched his, he pulled back and turned his head.
“Na,” he whispered.
She flattened her stance and took a step back. “Are you still mad about the fight? I’m sorry. I swear I didn’t encourage him.”
Unaware he’d been holding his breath, Brochan found himself in distress and inhaled, feeling light-headed.
“Ah need tae gae.”
She grabbed his arm. “Stay with me.”
“Ah cannae.”
She crumpled his shirt with her right hand, balling it in her fist. “Why? Am I not pretty enough for you?”
He huffed a little laugh. “Na. It isnae that. Yer beautiful. Ye ken that.”
“Then what?”
He swallowed and wished for the power to change the woman holding his wrist into the woman he longed to hold. The woman he’d lost.
Part of him wanted to take this woman here and now. She wasn’t Catriona, but perhaps she could help him be rid of her specter...
He grabbed Fiona and pulled her toward him, his lips close to hers.
She tilted back her head. “Kiss me.”
His breathing came faster.
“Kiss me. Take me,” she urged.
He released her with a grunt of frustration, spinning away, hands held out to his sides.
“Ah cannae.”
There was silence between them as he regained his composure. Running his hand through his hair, he turned back to find her staring at him, her head cocked.
“You have a love?” she asked.
He nodded. “Ah dae.”
“And she’s better than me? Fairer?”
“She’s deid.”
“What?”
“My Catriona’s deid.”
“Catriona...”
Though it seemed impossible, Fiona’s skin grew paler.
“Whit’s wrong?”
“Tell me about her.”
An image of Catriona teasing him outside his blacksmith shop flashed in Brochan’s mind and he smiled. He hadn’t realized how much he needed to speak of his time with her until that moment.
“She looks a lot lik’ ye, with stormy eyes and a mind full of fire and fancy.”
“Where did you meet her?”
“In the pub. She wis with her da.”
He thought he heard Fiona gasp. “What did he look like? Her father?”
“Thin. Eyes like ice. Bones as sharp as knives and a cruel temper to wield them.”
“Why do you say that? That he was cruel?”
“He beat Catriona. Ah saw him do it. And he called her by a name not hers.”
“What name?”
“Yours. Fiona.”
Fiona raised a hand to cover her mouth. “You said she’s dead?”
“Aye.”
“How did she die?”
“Her da shot her. Ah think his plan wis to kill me but—” It hurt him to recall the memory. The guilt he felt, she taking the shot meant for him, was a weight he’d born every day since her death.
Fiona moved forward and grabbed his shirt again, this time in both fists. She pulled at it, her jaw clenched tight as her face drew close to his.
“You saw her die?”
Broch took her wrists in his hands to stop her from tearing the fabric. It felt as if she were trying to climb him, to crawl inside his head and pull the answer from him.
“Whit’s wrong with ye?” he asked.
“Did you see her die?”
“Aye, she died in my arms.”
The tension on his shirt ceased as Fiona’s grip released. He let her wrists slip from his fingers and her arms dropped to her side.
“That’s impossible,” she whispered.
“Ah wish it wis. Ah buried her myself.”
Fiona’s head shot up. “You buried her? Here?”
“Nearby. My friend offered her a lair.”
Fiona took a few steps away from him. He thought he heard her whisper.
“Impossible.”
When Fiona finally looked up from her thoughts, her confusion seemed to have passed. A saucy smirk curled the corner of her mouth and she ran her tongue across her upper lip, like a lioness preparing for a meal.
She walked forward to slide her arms on either side of Broch’s hips. Placing her hands on his rump, she pulled him to
wards her with one sharp jerk. He held his hands in the air.
“Let me help you forget her,” she murmured. She reached up to grab his arm, pulling it down towards her until she could grasp his wrist. Cupping the back of his hand, she guided it down to place his palm against her bosom.
Broch felt his body reacting to her proximity without his permission. Again his head began to swim, as if her perfume muddled his senses. He pulled his hand from her breast and took a step back.
“Git away fae me, wummin’.”
She ignored him and stepped forward again, shifting from seductress to lovesick girl. She clasped her hands together beneath her chin, pleading. “Please. You’ll see. You’ll love me better—”
He shook his head, as much to deny her as to clear it. “Ah willnae. Yer some kind of a witch.” He took another step back and stumbled, catching himself against a tree.
Fiona’s mood shifted a third time as Broch watched her fury rise. Again she stepped close to him. Blocked by the tree, he could no longer retreat. She squelched her threatening posture by relaxing her expression, but her fists remained balled at her sides. “Take me. I command you.”
As if a spell had been broken, Broch laughed, and the sound of his own amusement sharpened his senses. A fog lifted from his mind and he saw Fiona for what she was, a spoiled girl, accustomed to having her way with men.
Why had ah been sae frightened of this lassie?
Her eyes flashed with anger. “You can’t resist me.”
He sniffed. “Och, ah can and ah hae—”
Her hand shot out and slapped him, hard, across the face. Surprised by the blow, he barely snapped from his shock in time to catch her other hand as it arced through the air to strike his opposite cheek.
They remained frozen, he holding her hand inches from his face, glaring at one another.
“I’m here,” she said, her voice low. “She’s dead.”
Brochan felt his anger rise and he released her wrist, dashing it downward.
“Aye. Bit she’s still a better wummin’ than ye.”
He turned and strode through the forest toward home.
No footsteps followed.
Chapter Fourteen
Broch sat up with a gasp and looked around his apartment.
Hollywood. Nae Scootlund.
He took a deep breath and imagined he could still smell the lingering scent of Fiona’s stolen perfume. He’d dreamt about her again. Ultimately, he’d left her behind in that forest. He hoped that would be the end of his memories of her. Something about the woman inspired a sense of foreboding.
Broch rubbed his eyes and realized he’d been sleeping on his sofa. He’d been getting dressed, trying to decide if today would be a kilt day or a pants day after his shower. He’d only meant to rest for a moment.
Glancing down, he noticed he’d made it as far as donning the comfortable, grippy underwear Catriona had bought for him. He liked the way they kept his nether parts just sae.
He pulled at the waistband with a hooked thumb, enjoying the springing feeling of the fabric as he strolled into the kitchen to check the great metal kist for food. After he’d dismantled the refrigerator in search of its secret for keeping food cold, Catriona had called a man to come and put it back together again. When Broch asked the man for the secret, he’d been told the food stayed cold thanks to “Freon.” Broch didn’t love the explanation but it wasn’t worth breaking the kist again to find the real magic just yet. He didn’t like being without cold food.
He grabbed an apple and bit it in two before turning on the television the way Catriona had showed him. He liked the television. It was a great way to learn about his new world and it could be entertaining as well.
A dancing man appeared on the screen, gyrating his hips for a crowd of screaming women. Slowly, but with great flourish, he began to remove his clothes.
The women went wild.
Broch took another bite from his apple.
Ah didnae ken the lassies lik’d that.
Soon, the man had stripped down to his underwear. The man’s underclothing looked as though they were made from the same springy material as his own, though the dancer’s were much smaller. They barely did their job, which seemed impractical.
He searched the remote for the ‘Info’ button and pressed it to force the title of the program to appear.
Magic Mike.
Hm. Magic. Mibbie his dancin’ is casting a sort o’ spell o’er the lassies.
He stood and was about to head for the bedroom to finish dressing, when he heard a knock on the door. Spinning on his heel, he followed the sound, opening the door to find Catriona standing in the hall. Her gaze dropped to his underwear.
“Broch, you can’t answer the door in your skivvies.”
He stepped back to allow her entry. “Bit it wis whit ah wis wearing.”
“I understand that, but you need to put on more clothes before you answer the door. If Jean came up here and you answered like that, you’d give the poor woman a heart attack.”
She tossed her purse on his kitchen counter and stretched her neck from side to side.
“I’m having a terrible day,” she mumbled. “Get dressed. We have to go to Sean’s office.”
He grinned.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
Broch began to gyrate his hips in slow, tight circles, doing his best to imitate the men he’d seen on the television.
“Ye lik’ this?” he asked.
She stared at him. “Why do you look like you own an invisible hula hoop?”
Turning his chest to the wall, he shook his bum, sliding down the paint into a squat and then standing again.
“Aye?” he asked, waggling his eyebrows.
Catriona squinted, her lips pressing tighter until she laughed out loud.
Broch stopped shaking and tried to remember if the women in the movie had laughed. They’d been smiling but it wasn’t laughter...
He doubled-down and gyrated to the thumping rhythm playing in his head. “Dinnae be embarrassed how it makes ye feel.”
He moved towards her and she put out her palms, bracing her elbows to stop his progress. He settled his ribs against them.
“Is it tae much fer ye?”
Catriona’s face turned red from giggling. A tear rolled from one eye.
It wasn’t the effect he’d been hoping for.
He put his hands behind his head like he’d seen the men on the television do and made his pecs bounce, once after the other.
“Ye want to marry me noo?”
Catriona howled with laughter and, appearing weak in the knees, turned away to support herself on his kitchen island.
“Stop, please. You’re killing me...” she said between snorts.
He straightened and put his hands on his hips, scowling. “It’s nae workin’?”
Catriona sniffed, wiping tears from her eyes. “No, you big doofus. You’re not going to dirty dance me into marrying you today. Go get dressed. We have to be at Sean’s office in fifteen minutes.”
Broch scowled. “Ye will give in.”
She rolled her eyes, still seemingly unable to keep from tittering. “Whatever.”
Broch stormed towards his bedroom. Inside, he stared at his bed until he had an epiphany.
The man on the television had a move he hadn’t tried. It made the girls scream with desire.
Broch turned to face his door and backed until his heels clipped his bedside table.
“Catriona.”
“What?”
“Come staun here next tae the windaes.”
Catriona poked her head into the bedroom. “What? Why?”
He waggled a finger toward the windows. “Over there. Staun over there in front of me. In the far neuk.”
Catriona arched an eyebrow. “I’m starting to think that trip through time injured your brain.”
“Just dae it.”
Catriona walked to the far corner of the room. She turned to face Broch th
rough the open door of his bedroom. “Here?”
“Aye.”
Broch took a deep breath.
Springing off his heels, he bolted towards her.
If he judged his speed and timing correctly, he’d slide right to her feet, where he’d ask her to marry him again...
She willnae be able tae resist.
As he crossed the threshold from the bedroom into the main living area, he dropped to his knees to slide across the floor. He opened his arms, preparing to glide to Catriona’s feet.
His knees jammed on the wooden floor.
They did not slide.
He saw a flash of Catriona gasping in horror, her hand rising to her mouth, before his forward momentum abruptly stopped and he fell face forward, the ground rising to meet his face at an alarming speed. He caught himself with the side of one hand a second before his face hit the ground full force, but with his awkward position he couldn’t cease all his momentum. Smacking his forehead against the floorboards, he ended on his knees with his cheek and nose pressed against the wood, his ass hiked high in the air.
Catriona spoke from behind her hand.
“You did not just do that.”
Broch groaned and slowly slid his legs out straight behind him until he lay with his belly on the ground.
“Ow.”
She snorted her signature laugh. “Are you okay?”
“Aye.”
Catriona reached down as he pushed himself up, allowing her to help him to his feet.
She glanced at the television where a man and a woman stood talking. “Is that Magic Mike?”
He wiggled his nose left to right to check it for breaks. “Aye.”
Catriona slipped her hands around his middle to hug his good side. He wrapped his arm around her.
“You’re adorable. An idiot, but adorable,” she said, stretching up to kiss his cheek.
He grunted and pecked the top of her head.
Patting him on the chest, she headed for the door. “Go get dressed before you rip out your stitches. We have to go.”
He took a step toward the bedroom and stopped. “Och, ah with all mah dancin’, ah almost forgot—”
