Читать книгу Rogue on the Rollaway - Shannon MacLeod - Страница 9

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The blinding light followed by the loud, splintering crash was alarming in itself, but the deep masculine groan captured Colleen’s full and undivided attention. Diving for cover behind the bed, she peeked wide eyed over the rumpled comforter. She kept her eyes glued to the bedroom door, feeling around next to her nightstand for the Louisville Slugger she kept tucked away. Heaving a silent sigh of relief when her fingers closed around the bat, she slid it from its hiding place and shouldered it. She took a deep breath and mouthed her get it together mantra - panic later, calm now, panic later, calm now. Noise coming from the living room, blocking the only exit. Second story condo. She eyed the window and winced at the thought of jumping, then dismissed the idea knowing full well that she’d never get the window open without making a huge racket in the process.

Plan B–call 911. Where was her…shit. She groaned, visualizing her cell phone right where she’d left it on the end table in the living room. Important safety tip–if she lived through this, phone in pocket at all times from now on. She stiffened her resolve and began the slow process of creeping toward the bedroom door.

With her heart hammering in her chest, she held her breath as she lingered in the doorway and listened. When she heard nothing, she ventured a step out and peered toward the front door. Still locked. She relaxed a tiny bit and lowered the bat just a fraction while she inched her way around the corner and into the living room.

Any sense of wellbeing she had fled again when she heard another low groan. “Bloody hell, that hurt,” the deep voice complained. More wood creaked and splintered, followed by a soft grunt.

She raised the bat again in a stance that would have done Babe Ruth proud and bellowed in a gruff voice, “Who’s there?”

The only answer she got was a heavy sigh and another groan. “Identify yourself,” she demanded. “I’ve got a bat and I will beat the living shit out of you if you so much as blink. I’ve got a black belt,” she lied frantically, “and…and…a gun. A big one.”

“From the frying pan straight into the fire,” muttered the strangely accented voice. “Lay down yer arms, lady, I mean ye no harm.”

Colleen inched forward, peeped over the back of the couch and gasped. Sprawled on his back in a pile of magazines and demolished wood that appeared to be the remains of her coffee table was quite possibly the most beautiful man she had ever seen. He lay still as a stone, his long black hair spread out around him, eyes closed as if he were asleep. “Who are you?” she asked again.

Several slow blinks revealed deep cerulean eyes fringed with thick dark lashes. He met and held her gaze, a lazy smile spreading across handsome chiseled features. “Beautiful lass, ye are,” he murmured. His eyes roamed over her in an inappropriate–although flattering, she had to admit–way, given his current circumstances.

Colleen flushed under his perusal and struggled to regain her composure. “I asked you a question,” she snarled, “and I get an answer. Right now, mister or I call the cops.” She gave the bat a menacing shake for emphasis, grateful he couldn’t see her knees knocking through the couch.

A look of uncertainty passed across his face. “Cops?” He lifted his head to survey his surroundings and his brow furrowed. “And what have I done for ye to threaten me with that club ye carry?” He struggled to sit up but fell back into the pile of wood, muttering a dark curse under his breath. “And have I no’ told ye already I mean ye no harm. If ye’d stop yer blustering for a moment, ye’ll see that I’m tied up tight, and I’d greatly appreciate it if ye’d remedy that.”

Wait… What? “Why should I trust you?” she asked, a little less sharply than before. “How do I know you won’t…”

He gave her a small smile that did strange and wonderful things to her heart. “Because I’m giving ye my word, and ’tis something I doona do lightly. Please.”

Against her better judgment, she lowered the bat and moved toward him. He rolled to his side, and she saw he was telling the truth. His hands and arms were bound close behind him. She surveyed the tight knots. “Wait right there,” she said, and ran to the kitchen to get something sharp enough to cut away the thick bindings.

The man rolled his eyes. “Och, aye. I’ll stay right here. And where exactly would I be going, do ye think?” he called after her.

She returned a moment later with a steak knife. “No need to get snotty about it. I’m still thinking about calling the police,” she snapped before she began sawing away at the heavy ropes.

He glanced back over his shoulder. “My apologies, lass. Just uncomfortable, I warrant.” His gaze wandered around the room, but when he looked back again it was to find her staring at his profile while she struggled to free him. “Far be it for me to tell ye yer business, but if ye doona mind, I’d appreciate it an’ ye’d pay a wee bit more attention to what yer cutting.” He softened the rebuke with a lopsided grin.

Frowning with embarrassment, she returned her gaze to the task at hand, trying to place the strange accent and his odd manner of speech. The first rope fell away beneath the serrated blade and she started on the second with enthusiasm. He shifted as the ropes loosened, and sighed in relief when the final one was cut. Rubbing his wrists to get the blood flowing again, he sat up and regarded her with a solemn bow of his head. “Ye have my thanks. What’s yer name, lady?”

“Colleen,” she answered.

His full lips curved into a dazzling smile that stole her breath, his straight teeth flashing white against his bronzed skin. “’Tis a pretty name for a pretty lady. What’s yer family name?”

Dimples. Sweet Jesus, the man had dimples. “O’Brien,” she said, regrouping rapidly from the effects of the stunner smile. “And you haven’t gotten around to telling me your name yet. And I’d like to know how you came to be lying on what’s left of my coffee table.”

He ignored her question. “So yer a princess, then. I thought ye had a look of the Irish about ye with those enchanting green eyes,” he remarked, looking around the condo. “’Tis fine enough to be a palace, I’m thinkin’.” He saw Mel Gibson frozen on the TV screen and was transfixed, puzzlement evident on his face. Tearing his gaze away, he glanced back at Colleen, but his eyes kept flickering over to the screen as if expecting Mel to charge out at any minute brandishing his claymore.

Colleen missed his disconcertion and snorted. “Princess? You must have hit your head pretty hard.”

He turned an incredulous gaze to her before explaining, “O’Brien is the family name of the descendents of Brian Boru, the High King of Ireland. Yer of royal blood.” He stretched his arms and legs, blowing out a contented sigh when his joints cracked. “So tell me, Princess, where have I found myself? Yer accent is strange to me.”

Well, then. It was obvious. She’d fallen asleep on the couch and was going to wake up any minute. This was definitely one of the most bizarre dreams she’d ever had. The man was seriously hot, though. Insane, but cute.

“You’re in Brandon, Florida.”

“Flo-ri-da?” he echoed.

“United States,” she clarified. Any minute now…

He shook his head and shrugged. “I suppose it matters not. What day is it?”

She folded her arms over her chest. “I’m not telling you anything else until you tell me your name.”

“Faolan MacIntyre at yer service, m’lady,” he grinned, inclining his head.

“Fee-lawn,” Colleen repeated, “that’s an unusual name. I was trying to place your accent…”

When he didn’t answer right away she realized she had lost him. His full attention was snared by the TV guide last seen lying on the coffee table, minding its own business. He rubbed the paper between his fingers then pointed to the cover. “Is this date correct?” he asked, the blood draining from his face.

Her trepidation building, Colleen nodded. His attention remained riveted to the magazine, gazing in apparent amazement at the pictures. He snatched up two more magazines–the new issues of People and Cosmopolitan– looking bewildered as he flipped through both from cover to cover. While he skimmed through her light reading material, she took a good look at his unusual clothing. His once white linen shirt was dirty and torn, and he was wearing some sort of leather pants, the likes of which she had never seen outside a Renaissance faire. A battered pouch strung on a thin belt of worn leather nestled against his hip. His tall boots folded down mid calf and were covered in mud… “You get those filthy boots off my carpet right now,” she shrieked. “I just had it cleaned.”

Faolan winced at her sharp tone. “As ye wish,” he muttered under his breath, and it was when he reached to tug them off that she saw the caked blood.

“Oh, my God. You’re hurt,” Colleen cried, grabbing his hands and pulling them to look at his abraded wrists. The contact was electrifying, and she sucked in a breath when she glanced up and caught him looking at her with the same intensity. “Don’t move.” Both the carpet and her fear forgotten, she jumped up and ran to the bathroom, returning in moments with a first aid kit. “Get that shirt off,” she ordered, and without a word he shrugged out of it.

Her mouth went dry at the sculpted muscles of his arms and chest covered in a light pelt of black curls. No steroids in this farm boy - those looked like real muscles. “Now hold still,” she said, wiping down the multitude of cuts and abrasions with antiseptic. She made a sound of sympathy at the crisscross of welts and cuts. “What on earth got hold of you?”

Her stoic patient sucked in a sharp breath when she cleaned a deep, encrusted gash on his shoulder and she immediately apologized. “I’m sorry, it’s just…”

Faolan shook his head. “Yer hands are gentler than most, Princess. Yer ministrations are welcome.”

Colleen colored at his flattering words. “I’m not a princess. I manage a gift shop at the museum,” she corrected, focusing her attention on cleaning the gaping wound. “This one may need stitches,” she said.

“In my eyes, ye are a princess,” Faolan murmured softly. “Mayhap even an angel.” He brushed a strand of hair from her eyes then turned a critical eye to gauge for himself how bad the cut was. “No need to worry, it’ll mend itself right enough,” he said with a nonchalant shrug. “Have ye skill with a needle? Ye could stitch–”

“Oh, no I couldn’t, either,” she assured him without hesitation, blanching white at the mere thought of sticking a needle in his flesh, whatever the reason.

He threw back his head and laughed at her adamant squeamishness, and her entire body reverberated with the warm, rich sound. Leaning in closer, his lips stopped just short of brushing hers. “How can I repay yer kindess…” he began then suddenly grabbed her by both arms and held her still, searching her eyes.

Colleen struggled in vain against the unexpected vice like grip. “Let me go,” she hissed.

“Steady, lass,” he soothed. With one large hand he reached inside her robe and curled his fingers around the necklace, raising it to his eyes. “Ye have my amulet,” Faolan whispered in a subdued voice, “and I’m guessing I know now how I got here. What I’d like to be knowing is how ye came by it.”

Colleen gasped at the intimate contact and huffed, “My grandmother gave it to me.” Well, she hoped she huffed. His touch was actually a lot more exciting than she wanted to admit and she wasn’t quite sure if she was ready for him to let her go. He released both her and the amulet. It fell back to her chest, hot against her tingling skin. “What does my necklace have to do with anything?”

With an enigmatic smile Faolan said, “Ye wished on it and now here I am, yers to command as ye will, Princess.”

He picked his shirt up, shook it out and slipped it over his head while Colleen tried to work her way through the cryptic comment. “Who are you?” she asked again. His stomach rumbled in answer and they both stared down at it. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” she frowned, her tone a little less sharp than before.

“Days,” he admitted. “Been living on dry bread crusts and water for at least a sennight. I was actually….em…in the process of being hung when ye called. Yer timing was most fortuitous.” He actually had the nerve to grin at that admission.

“Hung? As in from the neck until dead?” she cried, jumping back. “What did you do?” His large hand shot out to catch her ankle as she scrambled to get away from him, squeaking in alarm and swatting at his hand to free herself.

“I spurned the attentions of the wrong lady and she took enough offense to accuse me of witchcraft,” Faolan confessed in a rush. “Naught more than that.” He gave her another smile. “Ye have my word, freely given, I’ll no’ harm ye.” When she relaxed and stopped struggling, he released her ankle, spreading his hands in a gesture of peace. Refocusing on his injuries, he worked his shoulders gingerly to stretch the muscles. “My gaolers were less than charitable. Most of these,” he indicated the cuts, “are the result of their tender mercies.”

Colleen collected herself and gave him a tentative smile back. “I don’t know why I trust you’re telling the truth, but I do,” she said. “Of course, if I find out you’re lying, you’ll be back in jail before you know what hit you, got it?”

Faolan gave her a solemn nod of acquiescence. “Got…it.” The phrase sounded odd on his tongue.

“Good.” Colleen kept her eyes trained on the strange man. It’s a dream, just go with it. Her ingrained from birth Southern hospitality surfaced, and Colleen got down to the serious business of being a good hostess in spite of the bizarre situation. “Okay, your clothes are filthy, you’re starving and your cuts are clean but what you really need is a bath. Which do you want first?”

His eyes closed and a soft smile crossed his face. “I was right. ’Tis an angel ye are. Were ye to permit me a bath first, I would be forever in yer debt.” He rubbed the rough stubble on his jaw, obviously several days worth. “This itches like the very devil.”

“Shower it is, then,” she said, getting to her feet. She reached out her hand to assist him up, and when he clasped it in his own, a tangible charge of electricity ran through both of their bodies. She stared down at it in shock before yanking hers back. Aghast at her own rudeness, she glanced up to meet his eyes…and up…and up. “My God, how tall are you?” she squeaked once he had risen to his full height.

“Aye, well,” Faolan laughed. It came out as weel in his soft burr. “Tall enough, I reckon. As ye can see, my feet just barely reach the floor.”

Deciding to let her slight go unmentioned, Colleen led him to the large master bath where he cast a doubtful glance at the small bathtub. “Shower’s here,” she busied herself getting the nice guest towels–never been used–from the bathroom linen cabinet, “shampoo, conditioner and liquid soap are on the rack. It’s sensitive skin, hope that’s okay.” She pulled a new toothbrush and disposable razor from the drawer and laid them next to the sink. “I don’t have shaving cream, so you’ll have to use soap. Drop your dirty clothes outside the door and I’ll throw them in the washer.” The next hurdle presented itself as she took in–what a magnificent chest–his size. “What are you going to put on, though?” she thought out loud then assured him, “Don’t worry, I’ll find something.” And with that she turned and left the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

Colleen returned to the living room and turned off the TV, replacing the DVD in its case. Surveying the irreparable damage to her coffee table, she remembered Marc had picked it out and decided for that reason alone she didn’t care about its loss. It was only moments later before she was inexplicably drawn back to the bathroom. It was silent as a tomb inside. Waiting outside the door, she listened for several long heartbeats before calling through. “Mr. MacIntyre? Is everything all right?”

“Nay, not really,” came the mournful reply.

Colleen knocked on the door then cracked it open to find him still fully dressed and standing in the center of the bathroom with the frustration evident on his chiseled features. “Where are the buckets? Where do ye draw water? I’m not…I doona ken all this,” Faolan snapped, waving his hand around impatiently.

She gave him a long, hard look. “Can I ask you a really stupid question?”

“If ye feel ye must,” he muttered under his breath, glaring sideways at the faucet handles as if he half expected them to bite.

“When you left…wherever you were…what year was it?” She held her breath, waiting for the perfectly reasonable answer that would make all of this seem a little more …a little more what? More believable, less surreal, more plausible, less B movie, or any combination of the above would be fine.

“The year 1403. I was in Alba,” Faolan replied absently, opening the linen closet to continue his search for the elusive buckets. His eyes widened as he ran his fingers over the towels and sheets inside. “Soft,” he murmured. He moved past Colleen and returned to the sink. He took a deep breath and gave one of the handles a quick turn, jumping when the water came pouring out. At once, he dropped to his knees to yank open the cabinet doors beneath the sink, rapping the exposed PVC tubes with his knuckle. “And this mayhap draws the water in?” He didn’t give her time to answer. “That would mean,” he said, rising to his feet, “that all these…pipes…are somehow connected to a well, mayhap behind the walls…” He knocked against the flowered wallpaper, listening for hollowness.

Faolan’s attention was drawn to a wall switch near the mirror, and when he gave it an experimental jiggle, the row of round incandescent bulbs atop the vanity mirror went off, plunging the room into darkness. He muttered something unintelligible under his breath, flicked the switch again then gasped and blinked. He stared at the bright lights in disbelief. “And what manner of candles are these?” he whispered, reaching up to touch one before Colleen could stop him. With a muttered oath, he yanked his burnt fingers back and stuck the offended digits into his mouth.

“Here,” Colleen sighed in exasperation. She grabbed his hand and shoved it under the running water. A soft sound of relief escaped his lips when the cold water eased the burning and when he smiled at her concern, his response to her question sunk in.

Alba? Scotland! “Well, that explains everything,” she said with an air of nonchalance she in no way felt. That confirmed it. She was dreaming. Tomorrow morning when she woke up, she’d write it all down and sell it as a fantasy. Who could play him in the movie? Liam Neeeson might be tall enough, maybe Gerard Butler.

“Indoor plumbing–amazing invention.” She reached in and turned on the shower; he jumped back in alarm. “Don’t try and wedge yourself into that little tub. There won’t be any room for the water and God knows you need it. No offense. The shower’s better. Use this first then this,” she handed him the bottles of shampoo and conditioner, “on your hair. The soap is in the white bottle up there.” She patted the closed toilet lid and said, “This replaces the…what’s the word…garderobe, and don’t even think about sticking anything in these,” she said, pointing to one of the electrical wall outlets. She decided he was either a very good actor or he really had never seen anything like this before judging from the astonished look on his face.

A seductive grin curved his lips. “I thank ye, lady,” he said, casting a longing look at the hot water steaming up the bathroom. He deliberately wet his lower lip with the tip of his tongue, giving her a look that rivaled the temperature of the water. “That’s a lot of water for just one man,” he said in a deep, sexy purr.

“I’ll just leave the fresh clothes outside the door,” she gulped, backpedaling out when he began tugging at the lacings on his pants with slow movements calculated to draw her eyes right to his… She yanked the door closed with a solid thunk, snorting at the definite male chuckle on the other side. After a moment, it cracked opened just wide enough for a large hand to drop the dirty clothes as she had directed.

A gorgeous but exceedingly strange man appeared out of nowhere and was now naked in her shower, rubbing her soap all over a very impressive collection of muscles. She shivered and paused for a moment to catch her breath then began going through the dresser drawers in her bedroom. She rummaged through her winter drawer, looking for the sweats she knew were in there. He was definitely going to put one-size-fits-all to the test. She found the old gray pair of XL drawstring sweatpants she lounged around in and an oversized Universal Studios t-shirt. She draped the clean pants and shirt over the handle then hesitated. After a moment she put her ear to the bathroom door and smiled, hearing her new guest humming happily in a rich baritone while he splashed around in the shower.

Colleen picked up the pile of clothes and headed for the small laundry room just off the kitchen, grabbing the large muddy boots on the way. Upon further inspection, the ripped and bloodied shirt was set aside as a lost cause. She searched inside the odd pants for laundering instructions for several minutes before she caught herself and laughed. “Of course there aren’t any. They were made what, six hundred years ago?” Her laughter sounded strained even to her own ears. She checked the worn leather bag for ID but found nothing inside but a few bits of dried, broken leaves. The boots, she was happy to discover, weren’t as filthy as she originally thought. A bit of hot water from the laundry room sink to wash off the fresh mud and loosen the dried, and she was able to towel them off and pronounce them clean in relatively quick order.

Where was she going to put him? Colleen fretted, nibbling her lower lip. Guest room! With a heavy boot in each hand, she darted to her spare bedroom, still piled high with the boxes she hadn’t gotten around to unpacking after the divorce. Some days she kicked herself for not keeping the large house she and Marc had purchased right before his infidelity became front page news, but overall, the condo they once shared was much more affordable on her less than stellar salary.

Turning on the light, she peered in and for the hundredth time regretted the just moved in motif the room bore. Too late to worry about that now, she sighed. Dropping the cleaned boots next to a tall stack of taped liquor boxes, she rushed back to the kitchen to worry about dinner. Colleen took a fast inventory of her groceries to see what she could whip up for him to eat. She came to the conclusion that if TV dinners were good enough for her, they were good enough for him, considering he dropped in–literally–unannounced. She chuckled at the thought and set the table for her guest. She needed to keep moving and busy or else she’d likely start screaming. She giggled again, clapping her hand over her mouth to catch the nervous sound.

After the kitchen table was set to her satisfaction, Colleen tackled the shredded remnants of her coffee table. Grabbing two large garbage bags from under the sink, she placed one inside the other before shoving the larger pieces of the coffee table into it. Tying it as best she could, she dragged it over to the door to be taken out to the dumpster the next morning. Her mind was wandering in far left field when a bizarre thought occurred to her. Mentally she heard the voice of Rod Serling. “Submitted for your approval–the curious case of Colleen O’Brien and the gorgeous time traveling Scot who landed in her living room. Clapping a hand over her face, she took a deep breath. “My head is going to explode,” she muttered.

When enough time had passed that she began worrying about what he was getting up to in there, Faolan emerged from the steaming bathroom with a little boy at Christmas smile. “By Christ, ‘twas truly a wonderful thing.” He laughed. “I think this is the cleanest I’ve ever been.” He ran his hand over his freshly shaven jaw. “I found the razor to be most effective. Much better than a knife blade, but Jesú it is sharp.”

She smiled at his obvious enjoyment. “I think you’re going to need some new clothes, though.” The gray sweats fit his lean hips, but were lacking in length, catching him about mid calf. The cotton t-shirt stretched taut over his broad chest. His wet hair had been combed away from his face and hung well below the middle of his back. Colleen quickly averted her eyes, lest he catch her staring at him. Easily six and a half feet tall, two hundred fifty pounds and even better looking clean shaven, he filled the doorway with his muscular body. Colleen felt positively tiny next to this man.

Rod continued his monologue inside her head. Watch as we follow Colleen on her descent into madness, he urged the audience. She gave a start at the internal intrusion and cleared her throat. “Let’s get you something to eat, Mr. MacIntyre,” she said.

“Faolan, please,” he said. He followed her to the kitchen, taking the seat she directed him to.

Opening the freezer and peering inside Colleen said, “All I’ve got are TV dinners. Anything special you’re in the mood for?”

She turned to find he had slipped up behind her and was staring into the freezer, mouth agape. “It’s so cold,” he marveled, touching a fingertip to one of the frozen shelves. With an indulgent smile, she gave him a quick tour of the kitchen appliances then returned to the freezer. “Which do you want?” she asked again, gesturing to the stack of frozen entrees.

With a bleak smile, Colleen watched the spoils of her grocery trip the day before disappear into the bottomless pit of Faolan MacIntyre. Bite by ravenous bite, he polished off every single one of the frozen dinners, all but one of the desserts–“Food shouldn’t be that shade of green, lass,” he had remarked about the key lime pie–half a loaf of bread with most of a jar of peanut butter, two of the apples, and all of the milk. When at last he sighed contentedly and leaned back in his chair, Colleen relaxed. “You’re going to need to get a job if you always eat like that,” she pointed out. “I can’t afford to feed you.”

Faolan threw back his head and roared with laughter. “I’m naught but a growing lad,” he said, “but I am able to pay for my lodgings, Princess.” He glanced around the kitchen. “Where are my clothes, lady? I had a small bag with me.”

She went to the laundry room and returned with the worn and battered sporran. “If this is what you’re referring to, it was empty,” she informed him, handing over the soft leather pouch.

“Ah, but things aren’t always as they appear to be,” he teased, his deep blue eyes dancing with delight. “Were ye to look as my gaolers did, ye’d think it empty and worthless.” He held it open, turned the pouch upside down and shook it with a theatrical flourish. When nothing fell out, he smiled and closed it again. “But if I were to say I need coin to pay this kind lady for bed and board–”

“And clothing.” Colleen giggled, anticipating a magic trick.

“And clothing,” he amended, lifting the flap and sticking his hand inside, “I would reach inside the bag and pull out…” His hand emerged from the bag with a fistful of shiny gold coins, spreading them out before her on the table.

Her mouth formed in a silent oh. “Are those…gold? Real gold?” She picked one up and turned it over. It was heavier than it looked, maybe a full ounce or two. She raised it up to eye level to study more closely; if there had been a stamp on it at one time, it had worn away to almost nothing.

Faolan grinned. “Of course they’re real. There should be enough there to buy aught which ye require.”

She stared at the gold silently for a long moment then raised a worried gaze to him. “I need for you to tell me who you are, where you came from, and what I’m supposed to do with you now that you’re here,” she said, her voice quavering. “And I need for you to do it now–no bullshit. That bag was empty, sport.”

He blew out a gusty sigh. “My name is Faolan MacIntyre,” he began. “I was born in the year 1216…”

Colleen slammed her hands down on the table. “I said no bullshit.”

“And I’m giving ye none,” he snapped, slamming his own large hands down. “’Tis truth. Now do ye want the whole of it, or will ye continue to interrupt?”

She jumped at the sharp noise and nodded once. “I’ll be quiet,” she assured him in a tiny voice. He swallowed hard and she responded immediately by jumping up and fetching him a glass of ice water from the refrigerator.

He drained the glass in one swallow. Taking the glass from him, she refilled it then settled back into her chair. “Thank ye,” he said, his tone cordial again. “As I was sayin’, I was born the youngest of six in a small village a day and a half ride south of Inverness. I was sent to foster with my father’s clan near Edinburgh when I was old enough to learn to fight.”

Colleen leaned forward and rested her chin on her hands. “How old was that?” she asked, getting caught up in his story.

“Hard to remember, mayhap six, seven. My brother Sawney was already there.” Faolan said. “My mother–Beatrix was her name–insisted we be taught our letters as well. I learned…other skills…later on.” He paused to take another long drink of water and gave a low chuckle. “I had a normal boyhood, I reckon. Lifting cattle, warring with neighboring clans. In time, I was placed in charge of our clan’s garrison, training the men and leading them when the need arose.”

Colleen pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Beatrix is a pretty name, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard Sawney before.”

“It’s a nickname, ye might say. Short for Alexander.” He paused for another drink before continuing. “I married when I was but a lad of seventeen. Our union had been arranged, of course, but she was a pretty enough lass. We got on well together for being all but strangers when we wed and over time we grew to love each other. Had three bairns by the time I was twenty four, with another on the way.”

He fell silent and a shadow passed over his face. “In the early autumn I lost my wife and unborn daughter in childbirth, two of my sons the following winter to fever. My oldest lad Walter had already been sent to foster. I was devastated, my whole family gone in the space of a few months. I left my home and for years sold my sword to any willing to pay my price. On the eve of my birthday, I found myself alone in a tavern in Eire. I saw the most beautiful woman…I was drunk, ye see, and she made certain to catch my eye.”

His eyes were unfocused as they stared across the centuries. “She lured me to a field, and we…passed the night together. After that, she followed me from village to village until I grew angry and told her I had no use for a wife.” He sighed again. “’Twas then I found out she was no woman at all, but one of the sidhe, the Tuatha De Danann. Hell hath no fury like a scorned fae,” he laughed, but there was no mirth in it. “She placed an enchantment upon me.”

Colleen sat up. “Fairies? You were enchanted…by fairies?” She shook her head in disbelief and laughed. “Are you on medication for this?” When she saw the raw hurt from her ill-timed laughter flicker in his eyes, she was immediately ashamed of herself. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that,” she mumbled. “Please…go on.”

“Her name was Aobhnait,” Faolan said, his mouth twisting into a bitter smile. “She told me if I couldna find love with her, I’d find it with no one. What ye carry around yer neck, Princess, is nothing less than a piece of my immortal soul. In the attempt to bind me to her, she stole it from me while I slept and imprisoned it within that stone. Without it, I canna die. I’ve lived for hundreds of years, and watched everyone I ever cared about grow old and die. I canna even remember the faces of my wife and children.” His face contorted in anger. “She took everything from me to force me to return to her, and I refused. So now I am bound to the necklace, and therefore to ye, Princess.” He lifted his glass in toast. “It’s been missing for more years than I can recall. Truly, I thought never to see it again. How did yer grandmother come to have it in her possession?”

“I have no idea,” Colleen confessed. “She passed away six months ago, and asked that it be sent to me.” She watched her own hand in amazement as it reached out and gripped his larger one all by itself. “How can the curse be broken?”

His lips pressed together in a firm line, his face grew shuttered. Abruptly he pulled his hand away, pushed back from the table and stood. “The hour is late and I grow weary. Where may I take my rest?”

“Uh…yes,” Colleen said, rising in response. Waving for him to follow her, she led him across the living room and into the guest bedroom. “In here,” she called. Tugging the louver closet doors open, she dragged out the folded rollaway she used for company–or would have, if she had ever had company. Her hands flew as she made up the makeshift bed with floral cotton sheets and a down comforter. “It’s not fancy, but it will give you some privacy until we can figure out what to do with you,” she said, more to herself than to him.

Faolan stood in the doorway behind her and glanced around, his gaze landing on the narrow cot. He sighed. “And here’s me thinkin’ I’d be sharing that grand, inviting bed with ye.”

She whirled to face him, and he treated her to a devilish wink and grin.

“Out of the question,” she replied tartly. “I’m sure my husband wouldn’t appreciate that.”

Faolan tsked at her. “There’s no man living here with ye, Princess,” he said, his voice gently reproving. When she opened her mouth to protest, he gestured to the front door. “There are five locks on yer door and ye carry a club. Had ye a man, ye’d have no need of such protection. A woman as beautiful as ye alone. The men of yer time must be clot heided fools.” He pressed his hand down on the rollaway to test the softness. “This will do me just fine, Colleen O’Brien.”

She shivered at the way her name rolled off his tongue. Offering him a shy smile she said, “There are more blankets in the closet if you get cold.”

Faolan bowed graciously. “Thank ye, milady, and I bid ye a good night.”

“And just help yourself if you get thirsty; there are glasses in the cabinet right next to the fridge, and there’s water and ice in the door dispenser. Do you remember how it works?”

“Aye. Yer very kind, thank ye.”

Nervously twisting a strand of hair, Colleen knew inane babbling was imminent but to her complete mortification was powerless to stop it. She pointed to the wall switch and said, “You turn the lights on and off here and if you can’t sleep and want something to read there are books in the living room…” her voice broke off. “Wait. Can you read?”

His chin took a slight tilt upward. “Aye,” Faolan replied, his voice cool, “in English, Gaelic, Latin, or French. My Welsh is a bit rusty, and I doona remember any of the Greek I was taught except for words not fit for a lady’s ears. I can also count all the way up to…” He looked down and wiggled his large bare toes, “…twenty.”

Colleen was mortified at speaking her thoughts aloud. From his tone, she suspected that he may have been a teensy bit offended by the unkind assumption. Her heart sank again at her unintentional rudeness. “I’m…sorry. I didn’t mean…”

The twinkle in his eyes told her he was teasing. “Doona fash yerself; ’twas a fair enough question. I’ll be fine, Princess,” he smiled, giving her a charming tilt of his head. “I have to say, yer taking my arrival more calmly than most lasses. In all the times I’ve been summoned, I think this was the first time I’ve landed on my…backside.” He grimaced and rubbed his butt. “Made a hell of a mess of yer table, too. I’m sorry for that.”

She watched his hand with something akin to envy as it massaged that perfect, muscled…stop it… “Don’t worry about it. I hated that table,” she assured him between clenched teeth, “but it’ll be back by morning anyway.”

Faolan’s dark eyebrows flew up in surprise then dropped into a frown of unmasked suspicion. “And how will that come to pass, mistress? Have ye magic of yer own, then?”

She beamed, waving a hand nonchalantly. “I’m dreaming, of course. And in the morning when I get up, I’m going to write all this down so I can remember it. This is one of the best dreams I’ve ever had. Just call me Alice and you’re my white rabbit,” she said, ending with a high pitched giggle.

His look clearly said he questioned her sanity. “Ye said yer name was Colleen,” he reminded her, “and I wouldna have thought I resembled a rabbit at all, much less a white one.”

“My name is Colleen,” she laughed. “Alice is a character from a book by…” she paused, then waved her hand in dismissal. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. You’re just a dream.”

“I’m no dream, Colleen,” Faolan said. Like a stalking animal, he closed the distance between them with fluid, purposeful grace. She took one step backward then another and another until the wall against her back prevented further retreat. He braced his hands against the wall palm down on either side of her, fencing her in with his body. His darkening eyes locked on hers, he whispered, “Ye called to me and I answered, lady. I’m here to fulfill yer slightest whim, give ye yer heart’s desires, satisfy yer…” His gaze dropped to her mouth, “…every need. Ye need only tell me what ye wish of me.”

Her face flaming bright red, she ducked under his arm. “Good to know, thanks. Okay, then…umm…good night.” Giving him a quick smile she backed out of the room fast enough to leave skid marks on the carpet, fumbling for the knob and slamming the door closed behind her.

* * * *

“Going to ground like a frightened cony,” Faolan whispered with a grin, “but it’ll do ye nae good, my lass.” He stretched out on the padded cot just barely big enough to accommodate his bulk. Crossing his long legs at the ankles, he laid his head down, luxuriating in the softness of the sweet smelling down pillow. With one dangling hand, he felt around on the floor under the makeshift bed until he found his boots. She had cleaned them, he noted. Feeling around a little more, his hand came to rest on the empty sporran, which–heaven be praised–Colleen didn’t notice had followed him to his room all by its wee self. Lifting it to his lips he whispered, “My sgian dubh, if ye please.” He reached inside, pulled out the razor sharp knife tucked safely away in its leather sheath and slipped it under his pillow.

With another softly spoken word, the bedroom lights were extinguished. He sighed with utter contentment and smiled into the darkness, pulling the sheet and blanket up over him. He was thankful this new owner of the amulet was a comely lass. The last had been Elizabeth, a vain, older woman who was as bitter within as without. His service to her did not extend to her chambers, a fact for which he had fallen to his knees daily and given thanks to any gods who would listen.

Before her, there was the French madam Claudette, owner of the most prosperous whorehouse in Paris, frequented by nobility and gentry alike. He ran the games for her–cards, dice–whatever the vice du jour, occasionally pressing him into serving as a determent for drunken or abusive guests. She was a good woman, he remembered, fair with her girls and possessed of a sparkling wit. He had truly been sorry when she died, for he had grown fond of her over the years. It also meant having to leave again to wander aimlessly until summoned by the next owner lest his secret be discovered.

It was a meager existence to be sure, and one so lonely that many nights he deliberately put himself in harm’s way hoping to end his torment. No matter where he traveled or who he served, the fact was inescapable. The amulet had to fall into the hands of a woman who would fall in love with him if he had any hope of breaking his enchantment. So much in love, in fact, that she’d be willing to give him the amulet to lift the curse. A noble thought, that, but within seconds of presenting him with the gift, the poor woman’s soul would take the place of his in the stone. Wishing the jealous faery straight to lowest hell for the millionth time, he turned over and punched the pillow, resolving to put her from his mind before sleep claimed him.

Now here was a real woman, he smiled, reliving the evening. Colleen O’Brien. He liked the way her name sounded on his tongue. Eyes the color of spring grass, soft hair he ached to put his hands in, and a mouth so lush and full he hardened at the mere thought of tasting her sweetness. He had watched her move about her chambers. Aye, more closely than she may have realized. The fragrance of wild roses clung to her skin, trailing behind her when she walked, reminded him of balmy summer nights in Alba. The gentle curve of her waist just begged for his hands to encircle it. Her breasts, while not overlarge would fit comfortably in his hands and he allowed himself to wonder what else might fit as well.

A sudden frown creased his brow when he realized how truthfully he had spoken when she asked him where he came from. She was no simple wench to be fobbed off with flimsy explanations, he reassured himself and smiled again, remembering her reaction to his words. On medication, she had said. He shook his head at the confusing words, and reminded himself to ask her what that meant on the morrow.

Faolan yawned. Closing his eyes, he fell into an exhausted sleep so quickly he almost missed the silky voice that teased the outer recesses of his conscious mind. “Mayhap she’ll be the one to break your curse,” Aobhnait whispered. “Or mayhap not.”

* * * *

Colleen stared at her reflection in the mirror as she brushed her teeth. So this was what crazy looked like, she marveled. Giving the bedroom doorknob an experimental wiggle as she passed to make sure it was locked, she rubbed her eyes in exhaustion. The necklace she removed and placed on her dresser, but not before she stared into the large center stone again, searching for the movement she thought she had imagined before.

Shrugging out of her robe and laying it down neatly near the foot, Colleen stretched and yawned. She flung back the covers and crawled into the huge king sized bed she insisted on keeping after the divorce. Her head barely touched the pillow before she was up again to check the bedroom door one last time. After pondering the flimsiness of the locked door for a moment, she dragged a chair against it as an added precaution.

With the fervent vow she wasn’t getting up again unless something important was on fire, Colleen got back into bed. Giving the handle of the baseball bat a reassuring pat, she turned off the bedside lamp and burrowed under the covers. It was only a moment before she reached out and turned the other unused pillow sideways. With a sigh of resignation, she slid over to nestle up against it and fell asleep feeling only slightly a little less alone than the night before.