Highland Shifter
Page 6
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“You’re not a woman.”
He laughed. “Nay. That I’m not. But my family is full of them. They can help.”
* * * *
Helen had never been on a horse in her life, let alone with a man as solid as Fort Knox at her back. Yet here she was sitting ram-rod-straight on a huge horse with a huge man flush against her.
He looked nothing like any man she’d ever seen. Every ounce of his body looked as if it had been carved from stone, every muscle firmly in place. Dark locks of hair draped around his face, a scruff of facial hair afforded him a mysterious look any woman would appreciate.
The skin on her bare arms tingled, not in the way it should considering she had no idea where she was, or more importantly, how she’d come to be there. It was because of the man whose muscular legs tensed against hers as they rode.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, Helen thought she knew him. A strange sense of déjà vu washed over her every time he spoke. She supposed it was like thinking you knew a celebrity simply because you’ve seen them on the big screen. Yes, that had to be it. The picture in the book resembled the man at her back, therefore she thought she knew him.
Get your head out of that book, she chastised herself. She ought to be thinking about where she was, or where her car had disappeared to. Maybe she’d fallen when she’d reached for the picture and hit her head when she fell. That would explain a lot.
Helen reached for the top of her skull, feeling for a knot.
Nothing.
“You didn’t hit your head.”
Statement, not a question.
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve not hit your head. Everything you see from this moment on is real. Remarkable, but real.” His deep voice rumbled in his chest and stroked upon her back in a hauntingly familiar caress.
“How do you know my thoughts?”
He laughed. “I’ve been where you are.”
The horse under her stuttered in his step.
“What’s your name?”
He leaned back on the reins. The horse stopped.
Every noise in the forest waited for her next breath. Without being told, Helen lowered her voice. “What is it?” she whispered.
The man behind her went rigid. The reins in his hand fell to the side of the horse, raising alarm in Helen’s blood. What if the horse bolted without its master holding him tight?
Helen bent over the horse, grasping for the leather.
“Shhh.”
Crouched over the animal, Helen’s gaze wandered beyond the trees, deeper into the forest. A forest that hadn’t been there before the strange storm swept her away.
Heat inched up the right side of her face. She turned toward it and caught movement in the wood.
The man beside her turned his head to follow hers. His hand drew the sword strapped to the costume he wore.
The same clothing the man in the picture wore.
“What is—?”
His free hand clamped around her mouth, silencing her.
Every nerve in her body stood on end waiting for release.
Helen held still when the man behind her let go of her mouth and reached into a small pouch strapped to his thigh. He drew a jewel-encrusted dagger and pressed the hilt of it into her palm.
She started to tremble. Helen couldn’t help her body’s shudder any more than she could stop blinking her eyes. The forest seemed to wait, quiet with anticipation. Her breath held in the back of her throat for some sort of action.
Nothing prepared her for what she saw when it came.
On their right, three men bounded from the forest, two on horses, and the other on foot. They wielded swords and wore armor that should have been in a museum instead of on their backs. Still, they filled the air with battle cries and charged toward them.
The horse she rode stood perfectly still. Helen would have run for the nearest exit. Only when the closest man fell on them did the animal move. When it did, it backed away, and her dark hero took aim at their enemy’s sword.
Metal scratched against metal while Helen grasped the dagger in her palm and held onto the horse’s mane for balance.
This wasn’t happening. Couldn’t be happening. No one fought with swords any longer. The closest thing she could recall was knife fighting, like with the one in her hand.
Without looking, she knew this knife wasn’t like any she’d held. And before her misguided youth decided on her current path, she’d held plenty. She now turned to that instinct. The one that had kept her alive on the streets of Hollywood when she’d run from the last foster home.
The men charging them meant to hurt them.
From the force of their strikes, they meant to kill them.
Helen refused to fall victim to anyone before she had answers to the many questions burning inside her head.
While her hero beat down one man with a sword, another descended upon them. Hardly fair, but these giant men didn’t seem to care.
Black eyes met hers and skimmed to her legs astride the horse.
Helen couldn’t see the expression on the man’s face because of the strange mask he wore, but laughter lit his eyes.
She drew the knife in her hand in front of her, ever mindful of the man behind her beating his sword against the man trying to kill him.
The horse bolted forward, and Helen held on for dear life.
An arrow caught in a tree to her side, right as the horse skidded to a stop. It missed her by inches.
Three more men bolted from the forest, all more dire than the next.
Six to two.
Within seconds, they were surrounded.
The horse she rode stamped his foot on the ground.
Helen held her dagger in a fist, knuckles white.
“Hold your tongue,” her hero breathed into her ear.
Not that she needed the advice. If there was ever a time in her life to close her mouth and open her ears it was now. These men stepped from the pages of time, each of them regarding her with a mixture of lust and speculation.
Helen had an uncanny desire to pull her shorts lower on her legs.
“MacCoinnich?” one of the men shouted.
Her hero shifted his gaze toward the voice.
“Looks like we’ve captured one after all.”
The men circling them started to laugh.
The sound grated on her nerves.
“And with a lassie, too.”
What was up with the lass thing? Unlike any time the man at her back had used the term, the man stating it now did so with vulgar intent.
Her hero sensed it too, or so she thought as she felt his body move closer to hers. Without thinking, Helen moved her hand from her thigh to his in acknowledgment. Hold your tongue, he’d told her.
She could do that.
He laughed. “Nay. That I’m not. But my family is full of them. They can help.”
* * * *
Helen had never been on a horse in her life, let alone with a man as solid as Fort Knox at her back. Yet here she was sitting ram-rod-straight on a huge horse with a huge man flush against her.
He looked nothing like any man she’d ever seen. Every ounce of his body looked as if it had been carved from stone, every muscle firmly in place. Dark locks of hair draped around his face, a scruff of facial hair afforded him a mysterious look any woman would appreciate.
The skin on her bare arms tingled, not in the way it should considering she had no idea where she was, or more importantly, how she’d come to be there. It was because of the man whose muscular legs tensed against hers as they rode.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, Helen thought she knew him. A strange sense of déjà vu washed over her every time he spoke. She supposed it was like thinking you knew a celebrity simply because you’ve seen them on the big screen. Yes, that had to be it. The picture in the book resembled the man at her back, therefore she thought she knew him.
Get your head out of that book, she chastised herself. She ought to be thinking about where she was, or where her car had disappeared to. Maybe she’d fallen when she’d reached for the picture and hit her head when she fell. That would explain a lot.
Helen reached for the top of her skull, feeling for a knot.
Nothing.
“You didn’t hit your head.”
Statement, not a question.
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve not hit your head. Everything you see from this moment on is real. Remarkable, but real.” His deep voice rumbled in his chest and stroked upon her back in a hauntingly familiar caress.
“How do you know my thoughts?”
He laughed. “I’ve been where you are.”
The horse under her stuttered in his step.
“What’s your name?”
He leaned back on the reins. The horse stopped.
Every noise in the forest waited for her next breath. Without being told, Helen lowered her voice. “What is it?” she whispered.
The man behind her went rigid. The reins in his hand fell to the side of the horse, raising alarm in Helen’s blood. What if the horse bolted without its master holding him tight?
Helen bent over the horse, grasping for the leather.
“Shhh.”
Crouched over the animal, Helen’s gaze wandered beyond the trees, deeper into the forest. A forest that hadn’t been there before the strange storm swept her away.
Heat inched up the right side of her face. She turned toward it and caught movement in the wood.
The man beside her turned his head to follow hers. His hand drew the sword strapped to the costume he wore.
The same clothing the man in the picture wore.
“What is—?”
His free hand clamped around her mouth, silencing her.
Every nerve in her body stood on end waiting for release.
Helen held still when the man behind her let go of her mouth and reached into a small pouch strapped to his thigh. He drew a jewel-encrusted dagger and pressed the hilt of it into her palm.
She started to tremble. Helen couldn’t help her body’s shudder any more than she could stop blinking her eyes. The forest seemed to wait, quiet with anticipation. Her breath held in the back of her throat for some sort of action.
Nothing prepared her for what she saw when it came.
On their right, three men bounded from the forest, two on horses, and the other on foot. They wielded swords and wore armor that should have been in a museum instead of on their backs. Still, they filled the air with battle cries and charged toward them.
The horse she rode stood perfectly still. Helen would have run for the nearest exit. Only when the closest man fell on them did the animal move. When it did, it backed away, and her dark hero took aim at their enemy’s sword.
Metal scratched against metal while Helen grasped the dagger in her palm and held onto the horse’s mane for balance.
This wasn’t happening. Couldn’t be happening. No one fought with swords any longer. The closest thing she could recall was knife fighting, like with the one in her hand.
Without looking, she knew this knife wasn’t like any she’d held. And before her misguided youth decided on her current path, she’d held plenty. She now turned to that instinct. The one that had kept her alive on the streets of Hollywood when she’d run from the last foster home.
The men charging them meant to hurt them.
From the force of their strikes, they meant to kill them.
Helen refused to fall victim to anyone before she had answers to the many questions burning inside her head.
While her hero beat down one man with a sword, another descended upon them. Hardly fair, but these giant men didn’t seem to care.
Black eyes met hers and skimmed to her legs astride the horse.
Helen couldn’t see the expression on the man’s face because of the strange mask he wore, but laughter lit his eyes.
She drew the knife in her hand in front of her, ever mindful of the man behind her beating his sword against the man trying to kill him.
The horse bolted forward, and Helen held on for dear life.
An arrow caught in a tree to her side, right as the horse skidded to a stop. It missed her by inches.
Three more men bolted from the forest, all more dire than the next.
Six to two.
Within seconds, they were surrounded.
The horse she rode stamped his foot on the ground.
Helen held her dagger in a fist, knuckles white.
“Hold your tongue,” her hero breathed into her ear.
Not that she needed the advice. If there was ever a time in her life to close her mouth and open her ears it was now. These men stepped from the pages of time, each of them regarding her with a mixture of lust and speculation.
Helen had an uncanny desire to pull her shorts lower on her legs.
“MacCoinnich?” one of the men shouted.
Her hero shifted his gaze toward the voice.
“Looks like we’ve captured one after all.”
The men circling them started to laugh.
The sound grated on her nerves.
“And with a lassie, too.”
What was up with the lass thing? Unlike any time the man at her back had used the term, the man stating it now did so with vulgar intent.
Her hero sensed it too, or so she thought as she felt his body move closer to hers. Without thinking, Helen moved her hand from her thigh to his in acknowledgment. Hold your tongue, he’d told her.
She could do that.
