Kiss of the Highlander
Page 18

DROPOUT DAUGHTER OF WORLD-RENOWNED PHYSICISTS ABDUCTED BY ESCAPED MENTAL PATIENT. SUBTITLED: SHE SHOULD HAVE LISTENED TO HER PARENTS AND STAYED IN THE LAB.
He fell silent, and when she opened her eyes he was scanning the village below: the boats on the loch, the buildings, the cars, the bright lights and signs, the bicyclists in the streets. He cocked his head, listening to the blat of horns honking, the buzz of motorbikes, and, from some café, the rhythmic bass of rock and roll. He rubbed his jaw, his gaze wary. After some time he nodded, as if he’d resolved an internal debate he’d been having. “Christ,” he half-whispered, aristocratic nostrils flaring like a cornered animal. “I haven’t lost a mere moon. I’ve lost centuries.”
A mere moon? Centuries? Gwen pinched her lower lip between her finger and thumb, riveted.
Then he looked back at her, eyed her shirt, her pack, her hair, her shorts, and finally her hiking boots. He tugged her foot out from beneath her, held it in his hands and studied it for a long moment before raising his eyes to hers again. His dark brows dipped.
“You name your stockings?”
“What?”
He ran his finger over the words Polo Sport stitched on the thick woolen cuff of her sock. Then his gaze fixed on the small tab on her hiking boots: Timberland. Before she could form a reply, he said, “Give me your pack.”
Gwen sighed and started to hand it to him, then unzipped the main pouch first, not in the mood to get into a discussion about zippers. Considering the one on her shorts—if he truly didn’t know how they worked—she wasn’t in a hurry to teach him. Women should sew padlocks on their zippers with him around.
He took the pack and dumped the contents on the ground. When her cell phone fell out, she was momentarily furious with herself for forgetting it, until she recalled that it wouldn’t work in Scotland anyway. As he withdrew it from the jumble of her belongings, she realized it wouldn’t work—ever again. The plastic casing had been crushed in one of her many falls, and it broke into pieces in his hands. He eyed the tiny technology inside with fascination.
He sorted through her cosmetics, pried open a compact, and regarded himself in the small mirror. Her protein bars were tossed aside along with the box of condoms (thank heavens), and when he spied her toothbrush, his bewildered gaze swept from her long, thick hair to the tiny brush and back to her hair again. One brow arched in an expression of doubt. He picked up the latest issue of Cosmopolitan, eyed the picture of the half-clad model on the cover, then fanned rapidly through it, gawking at the brilliantly colored pictures. He ran his fingers over the pages as if stunned. “And Silvan thinks his illuminated tomes are lovely,” he muttered. When he started sorting through her brightly colored panties, she’d had enough. She closed her fist over the lime silk thong he was currently examining and firmly shook her head.
But when he looked at her, she realized that for the first time since they’d met, seduction was not on his mind. Her desire to flee was abruptly vanquished by the look of anguish on his face, and she wasn’t so certain anymore that he was playing with her. If he was, he was a consummate actor.
Plucking the magazine from his hands, she pointed out the date in the corner. His eyes widened even further. “What century did you think it was?” she asked, disgusted with herself for being a sucker for a gorgeous man. He evidenced no intellect, had no redeeming qualities, yet drew her like a fluttery moth to a flame, and so what if she made ashes of her wings?
“The sixteenth,” he replied hollowly.
He sounded so distraught that she touched him, brushing her fingers against his chiseled jaw, lingering longer than was wise. “MacKeltar, you need help,” she soothed. “And we’ll find you help.”
He closed his hand over hers, turned his head, and kissed her palm. “My thanks. I am pleased you come so swiftly to my aid.”
She withdrew her hand quickly. “Come with me to the village, and I’ll get you to a doctor. You probably fell and have a concussion,” Gwen said, hoping it was true. The alternative was that he had been wandering around, God only knew how long, thinking he was some medieval lord, and she just couldn’t reconcile the powerful, arrogant man with a delusional paranoid schizophrenic. She didn’t want him to be sick. She wanted him to be just as he appeared to be: competent and strong and healthy. It seemed impossible that a mental case could be so…commanding, regal.
“Nay,” he said softly, his gaze drifting to the date on the magazine again. “We go not to your village, but to Ban Drochaid,” he said finally. “And we haven’t much time. It will be a hard journey, but I will tend you gently when we arrive. I shall see you handsomely rewarded for your assistance.”