HIGHLAND FLING
Jennifer LaBrecque

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

To Dr. David K. Monson, surgeon extraordinaire.

Thank you for “rescuing” my leg

and giving it a happy ever after.

You’re my hero.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Epilogue

About the Author

Coming Next Month

1

KATE TRACED THE PUCKERED, rough edge of the scar that ran from his side across the smooth satin of his back. He was warm and—

“Dr. Wexford, could you take a look at Mr. Chesney’s x-ray before you leave?”

—he was a figment of her imagination. The intern’s question jerked her back to the present. It was a good thing her shift was ending, if she was daydreaming by the coffee machine again. She was officially off-duty, but she could spare the time to check an x-ray. Not only did she love what she did, it was off-duty dedication that had earned her the position of assistant head of ER at Atlanta’s prestigious Walker Medical Center.

“Absolutely.” Kate drained the rest of her double latte with the espresso shot, took the film and held it up to the fluorescent light. She shook her head. Work in a city ER was neither boring nor predictable. “Did Mr. Chesney give you any indication he has a small rodent in his rectal area?”

Dave Reddick, straight out of med school, nearly choked. “No, doctor, he didn’t.”

“My guess is a female hamster, three to four months old. I think Dyer’s on the surgical rotation. See when he wants to schedule Mr. Chesney to retrieve his friend.”

Kate handed the x-ray back to the fresh-faced Reddick and headed for the door.

“Uh, Dr. Wexford?”

She stopped and turned. “Yes?”

“How’d you know?”

“The pointy nose and long tail was a dead giveaway.”

“Uh, no ma’am. I meant how’d you know it was a female, three to four months old?”

“Oh that.” Kate shrugged and smiled at the earnest resident. “I made that part up.”

Reddick’s mouth dropped open and then he recovered and offered a stilted laugh. “Right.”

“But he does need to have it surgically removed so get him scheduled.” She walked out of the break-room and ducked into the staff bathroom.

Good. It was empty. She checked her watch. Forty-five minutes. She could still make it before the museum closed, even though she’d sworn she wasn’t going back again. She shrugged out of her white coat and hung it in the locker, knowing it was inevitable.

Tonight was the last night. After tonight it was a moot point. But all day she’d felt this odd compulsion, almost, as silly as it sounded, a calling to see him one more time. No. It was beyond silly. Kate had always prided herself on her practical, pragmatic nature. She didn’t do things like show up again and again to moon over a man in a portrait. But tonight was the last night. What harm could come of one more foolish trip?

She dragged a brush through her short hair. Hmm. Time to schedule a touch-up. She had major root action going on. She dug around in her purse and pulled out her lipstick.

The door behind her opened and two women strolled in. Oh, great. Dr. Torri Campbell, the Bitch from Hell and her underling who reminded Kate of Nurse Ratchett.

Kate ignored the two women and leaned into the mirror to smooth on her lipstick.

“Hot date tonight, Dr. Wexford?” Torri arched one perfect blond brow, her green catlike eyes alight with malice.

Kate and Torri had pulled ER rotations at the same hospital out of med school and then later found themselves at Walker Medical Center vying for the same position. They’d never particularly hit it off, but once Kate had been named assistant head of ER, Torri had all but declared war.

“Yes, I do have a hot date waiting, Dr. Campbell. Thanks for asking.”

Torri, a tall statuesque blonde who used a Palm Pilot to juggle her numerous dates and men, knew good and well Kate Wexford didn’t have a date. Why break a six-month dry spell?

“New man in your life? How in the world did I miss that?” If a person could expire from sheer bitchiness, Torri would’ve been six feet under long ago.

Kate, her wicked sense of humor fully engaged, decided in for a penny, in for a pound. She imbued her shrug with just the right amount of insouciance to pique the other woman’s curiosity. “Just someone who’s been in town a few weeks. He travels often and he’s leaving again tomorrow.” The truth was getting more and more elastic, but the stretch was worth the look on Torri’s perfect features.

“Ooh.” Torri slanted her a look rife with speculation. “Where’s he from?”

“He’s a world traveler, but he’s originally from Scotland.” Okay, so there was a good chance she’d burn in hell for this, but it was just too much fun.

“Well, aren’t you the secretive one. How’d you meet him?”

“A mutual friend introduced us.”

“Blind date?” Torri eyed Kate, who was fully two inches shorter and twenty pounds heavier, as if the guy would have to be blind to continue going out with her. At least Kate didn’t target married men. She’d spotted Torri and one very married surgeon lip-locking in the parking garage last week. Not that she was in the market for either, but Kate would take a blind date over a married man any day.

“Something like that.” She shrugged into her coat. It was ridiculous that one look could negate all her achievements and reduce her once again to the short, overweight girl who’d made the grades but not the social calendar. “Got to run. I don’t want to keep him waiting.” She slung her purse over one shoulder and headed toward the door.

“Hold on.” Torri reached into her locker, pulled out a handful of condoms and stuffed them into Kate’s purse. “Friends don’t let friends head into the weekend unprotected.”

She and her underling exchanged a glance that clearly stated Torri was hot, Kate was not and that she’d need a handful of condoms was a stretch. An even bigger stretch was that she and Torri were friends.

“Thanks.” Kate opened the door.

“Sure. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.” Torri offered a brittle laugh. “And that leaves it wide open.”

Maybe it was the end of a grueling twelve-hour shift, maybe it was the caffeine surge from the espresso, or maybe it was because she was no longer a sixteen year old wallflower suffering from the digs the “popular” girls had thrown at her, but she gave in to the impulse she’d squelched more than once.

“Thanks, but I think I’ll stick with unmarried men.” She smiled and let the door close behind her.

God that felt good. She bypassed the parking garage. Friday rush hour was still alive and near gridlock even at this late hour. Atlanta was a great city, but the traffic was abysmal. She could hoof it or forget about making it there before it closed.

She was only slightly winded twenty minutes later when she mounted the leaf-strewn marble steps and flashed her membership card at the blazer-clad attendant.

“You know we close in fifteen minutes,” she said.

“Yes. Thanks.”

She hurried along the winding, stairless ramp that lead to the different levels of the museum, too impatient to wait on the ridiculously slow elevator. Besides, she could use the exercise. With its switchback ramp, the building reminded her of a giant chambered nautilus.

Her heart thudded and it was more than the exertion of the climb. She felt as nervous as if she were meeting a real date.

Here it was. Third floor, one left turn and she was at the special traveling exhibit, Sex through the Ages. Virtually deserted. Only one couple, holding hands and talking in low tones, wandered in the opposite direction.

Excitement hummed through her like a low current of energy. It had been this way since the first time she’d stepped into the room a month ago. It had been a Friday night, much like this evening, but instead of closing in fifteen minutes, the museum had been open late. It had been one of the Friday Evenings of Jazz the museum hosted to launch a new exhibit. A jazz quartet had played in the open rotunda and a cash bar served martinis.

Half a martini into the evening, she’d wandered through the display of dildos throughout history and another display covering the transition of tempting undergarments through the ages. Kate wasn’t sure the thong counted as real progress.

She’d just wandered out of that room and into another, not certain of the theme there, a saxophone’s husky notes floating through the night air around her. And that’s when she’d first felt it. A raw sexual energy had pulsed deep inside, a need that blossomed in her womb and radiated through her.

The scent of a man, unfettered by any of the myriad male colognes on the market, but with just a hint of something indefinable, had teased her nose and a purely instinctual response had quivered through her. She’d felt his breath feather over her skin, felt his heat near her, felt his lust and his hunger.

She’d never felt such energy from anyone else. And never been quite so aroused without a look or a touch.

She’d turned, fully expecting to find a man right behind her. There’d been no one. Instead, there’d only been a painting. The painting. Mounted on the wall behind her.

She’d felt the same energy, an answering hum deep within her every time she’d visited the exhibit, which had been often. It was crazy. She wasn’t just a woman in charge of her own life, she was the assistant head of one of the busiest ER’s in the city. But it was as if her will had been sublimated and she couldn’t resist coming—even when she tried to stay away.

And it was the same now as it had been then, when she’d first seen him.

“Now that’s a man,” Kate Wexford sighed at the rendering of the rugged Scotsman towering over the ancient bed. A wicked scar, the one she’d daydreamed of earlier, bisected the sleek muscles in his bare back. With arms like small saplings, he eased his kilt, a red and blue plaid, down his hips, one knee braced on the bed’s platform, his legs thick and strong. Wild hair as dark as a starless night curled past the width of his massive shoulders. Not for the first time, she speculated that all parts were probably equally large.

In the background of the picture, a fire burned in the stone wall, burnishing his body with a golden glow, casting the woman on the bed in shadow, only her foot visible.

Kate berated herself for the heat that flooded her. What was wrong with her that she had the hots for a freaking picture? But it had beckoned her and brought her back with growing frequency. The man in the picture had increasingly intruded on her thoughts and even interrupted her focus at work. Kate knew she could be single-minded and determined, but she’d never been obsessive. But, clearly, that had changed with this picture, this man.

But not after tonight. The exhibit ended today. Tomorrow it would travel to another city. Irrationally, a deep mourning of bidding a lover farewell gripped her. Heat and yearning and no small measure of resentment flowed through her. She was being ridiculous and even more pathetic than Torri Campbell made her out to be—lusting after some dead guy in a painting who most likely had never been a real person anyway. And logical, sensible Kate didn’t do ridiculous or romantic.

That was more in keeping with her former college roomie, Jordan. Jordan, now back in grad school, lost herself for days in times long past and ancient cultures.

“It seems you’ve taken a liking to the MacTavish,” a voice behind her said.

Kate started and turned, annoyed at the interruption. She relaxed. It was only the older man she’d seen on several occasions. With his gray hair, kind blue eyes and frayed vest, he reminded her of an old-fashioned conductor who’d collected countless tickets for innumerable journeys. Nonetheless, he’d startled her.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m the exhibit caretaker.” He nodded toward the starkly sensual portrait. “You come often. You seem to have taken a liking to the MacTavish.”

Busted. And although it was embarrassing the number of times she’d visited this portrait, she could hardly deny it when the old man had clearly noted her obsession.

She flushed at being caught out and nodded. So, her man had a name. Her curiosity outweighed her embarrassment. “Yes, I’m fairly taken with…what did you call him, the MacTavish? So, he’s real? Or, I mean, he was?”

The old man studied the portrait as if viewing an old friend. “Darach MacTavish. Once head of the clan MacTavish. One of the finest men to walk Scottish soil.”

Kate drew a deep breath, her heart pounding. He was real. Well, he had been real.

“Who painted the picture?” She’d often wondered.

“The artist is unknown.”

“Who’s the woman in the portrait?” Talk about total irrationality to resent the woman in the picture.

“That’s unknown as well. I do know Darach MacTavish died shortly after the picture was painted.”

His words knifed through her soul. What was wrong with her? She dealt with life and death on a daily basis and while she wasn’t inured, she handled it.

Kate persevered, driven by the knowledge that after tonight this man who’d so captured her imagination would be forever gone from her world. “What happened? How’d he die?”

“The Battle of Culloden.”

Kate looked at him blankly. The man in the painting might have captured her imagination and awakened a fierce lust, but she was a doctor, not a historian. Science, not history, had always been her thing. “Never heard of it.”

“A group of Scotsmen known as Jacobites wanted to restore Bonnie Prince Charles to the English throne. It was a doomed endeavor from the beginning. Darach MacTavish died on the battlefield at Drumossie Moor, later known as Culloden, in the spring of 1745. Even if he hadn’t, the British would’ve killed him afterwards.”

Kate gasped and braced her hand against the wall as a physical pain wracked her body. “What about his wife? His children?”

“No wife. No children. The MacTavish died without any heirs.”

“So he died alone.” Unbidden, the thought came to her that if she died tonight, now, she too would die alone, much as the man depicted before her. With both of her parents dead and no time for a boyfriend or husband or even girlfriends with her schedule, who would miss her?

The old man shook his head, his eyes looking beyond her and the present, into the past. “He didn’t die alone. His clansmen died along with him on that bloody field. Them that didn’t die along with him were hunted down by the British. And that was the end of the clan MacTavish.” He shook his head. “Actually, that day marked the end of the Highland clans.”

It was her turn to shake her head. His story, in addition to eating up her last few minutes, had irrationally devastated her. “It seems such a waste. But I don’t suppose any of us can avoid our destinies.” It sounded better than life’s a bitch and then you die. This obsession she’d developed couldn’t be mentally healthy. It was just as well the exhibit would leave Atlanta after tonight.

The old man’s enigmatic smile vaguely unsettled her. “Destiny’s an interesting concept. Did you know Albert Einstein was fully convinced time was yet another frontier to be explored?”

“I think I’ve read that before. But I don’t believe it’s possible.” She started as the lights in the main section of the building dimmed, reducing the room to shadows.

“It’s time for you to go, Miss.”

Intellectually, she knew her time was up. The logical part of her wanted to turn and leave. The new, unfamiliar part of her awakened by the portrait balked at leaving just yet. “I know the museum’s closed, but do you think you could give me another minute?”

His look apologized. “It’s time for you to go now. Do you have everything you need?”

His words penetrated her heavy heart with their peculiarity. “Everything I need?”

“Are your affairs in order?”

The old man took her by the arm, but then rather than turning toward the door, he propelled her closer to the picture. She was too surprised to protest or pull away when he gave her a shove. Instead of banging into the wall, she felt herself spinning, faster and faster. Dizzy. Disoriented. Unable to…get…her…bearings. Dark…closing…in….

2

KATE SHOOK HER HEAD to clear it. At least the spinning had stopped. She opened her eyes, and immediately closed them again.

What the hell…?

“Well, lass, mayhap you shoulda asked before you showed up naked in my bed. I wouldn’t complain, except you are a stranger. I well nigh ken everyone in these hills.”

Her fantasy man’s voice was even deeper and richer than she’d imagined with a thick Scottish burr. Under normal circumstances she’d find the voice, along with the rest of him, very sexy…but there was nothing normal about finding yourself naked on a bed with a very large stranger looming over you.

Her brain raced as she opened her eyes and scanned her surroundings. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to replicate the exact setting of the painting, even down to the fire crackling beyond the stone hearth. She looked for any hidden cameras on the set. She wasn’t sure how they’d done it. How had they gotten her out of her clothes? This had to be some over-the-top reality show set or she was an unwitting participant in an elaborate hoax.

Kate possessed a sense of humor. She appreciated a good joke, but naked? How had they gotten her here? One minute she’d been standing in the museum looking at the picture and talking to the caretaker. The next minute, he shoved her, she blacked out, and came to in the picture…and naked as a newborn at that. She was more annoyed than frightened. “This isn’t funny. If you don’t put an end to this immediately, I might have to sue someone’s ass off.”

She scrambled for something to cover herself. Her clothes had vanished, but her purse still hung from her shoulder. Regardless of how sexy Tall, Dark and Yummy came across, he needed to know she meant business. She shifted the purse to her front, trying to shield herself.

“And you can cut the accent.” She raised her voice and spoke to the room at large, so any hidden microphones could pick her up clearly. “If someone’s rolling tape cut it right now and we’ll just forget about a lawsuit.”

Despite the affable smile curling his lips, the man’s dark eyes raked her, assessed her. Even under the bizarre circumstances, a betraying heat spread through her.

“And I want my clothes.” She used the tone that always got results. “Now.”

“Do ye now? I’m perfectly fine with the view. And I have no idea where you left your clothes, lass.” He pulled out a short dagger and the first frisson of fear replaced her confusion. “Pass along that satchel you’re holding onto and I will check that your clothes are not in there.”

Kate clutched her Prada bag even closer. “Forget it. I’m not handing over my purse.” She ran an unsteady hand over the bag. No bulge of clothes there, even though she hadn’t expected there to be. “My clothes aren’t in there. Now, Mr. Whoever You Are, hand over my clothes.”

He shrugged massive shoulders that gleamed in the firelight and glanced around the room. “They are nae here. And mayhap you could tell me who you are and how you came to be in my bed without your clothes.”

“I’m not discussing anything until I’ve got something to put on. That scarf of yours is better than nothing.” Kate was used to immediate compliance. She absolutely wouldn’t let him see that he, along with the whole situation, confused her.

“Scarf?”

Kate pointed to the long plaid scarf he held in his hands. The one that matched his kilt. “Yeah, your scarf.”

“Are you daft, woman, that you would call me plaid a scarf? But if that’s what it takes to get an answer out of you….” Without further ado he unwound the remaining length of material and tossed it to her.

Oh. My. God. The bottom and the top were all one long piece of material and he was stark naked beneath it. She saw naked bodies all the time, but this was different. Vastly different. She swallowed hard and dragged her eyes back up to his face. No need to gape like a hysterical virgin or a sex-starved spinster.

“You could’ve told me you didn’t have on anything beneath it.”

“You didna ask.” His smile held a wealth of arrogance.

For an instant, Kate considered tossing the material back at him, but if one of them had to be naked…well, better him than her. Plus, if you had to have a naked man standing by a bed…well, he was a fine specimen.

“Who’s in charge here?” she asked as she wrapped the material, still bearing his body heat and his hauntingly familiar scent, around herself toga-style.

He cocked his head to one side and looked down the hooked nose that saved his face from being too pretty. “You’re wearing the MacTavish colors and you have to ask?”

This whole thing was way too weird and she might’ve been more open to the practical joke if she hadn’t been naked and if the now-naked man wasn’t wielding a knife. “Oh yeah, how could I forget? You’re Darach MacTavish…and I’m the Queen of England.”

The words were hardly out of her mouth when she found herself pinned flat on her back, the man atop her. The cool metal of his dagger bit against her neck. His eyes were flat and cold. “I’m not sure whether you are daft or bold or both, but those are dangerous words to speak on MacTavish land.”

For the first time, Kate was thoroughly frightened, not just because she was being straddled by a knife-wielding naked psycho, but for the first time she recognized this might be something other than a hoax.

Perhaps it was the flicker of fear in her eyes, but the man moved the blade away from her throat.

“Thank you,” she gasped, only then realizing she’d been holding her breath, afraid to breathe.

He slid off of her. “I’m sorry to have frightened you.”

“I apologize for my earlier sarcasm. Obviously I’m not the Queen of England. I don’t even like the royal family and I think it was extremely tacky for Charles to marry that Camilla.” She caught herself. Fear had her babbling like the proverbial brook. “My name is Kate Wexford. Dr. Kate Wexford. Where exactly am I?”

Pity, along with a hearty dose of mistrust, warred in his eyes, as if she were the one suffering psychological problems. “Where would you like to be, Kate-lass?”

“Back where I was five minutes ago? Looking at this picture instead of standing in it. Where am I?”

The man stepped back a pace to stand tall and proud by the bedside, dagger still in hand. “You’re in the keep of Castle MacTavish at Glenagan.”

Truly. Not much escaped her, but she was having a heck of a time keeping up with this. She dealt with the regular druggies and the occasional psychotic in the ER. This man didn’t have the wild-eyed, high-on-drugs look or the psychotic demeanor, but humoring him seemed the best course of action. “And you’re Darach MacTavish?”

He bowed formally from the waist, as if he were garbed in royalty’s finest and wasn’t splendidly, impressively naked before her. “Aye, I am the Mac-Tavish, laird of Glenagan.”

And just how out of touch with reality was he? “And what year is it?”

“The year be 1744.” He thought it was 17-freaking-44? Okay. “What year might you think it?” He spoke carefully, as if she was the one with the problem. Delusional people were actually more pitiful than frightening, except those armed with knives—that was a bad combination.

She hedged. “Uh…I thought it might be a little later than that.” She carefully slid to the edge of the bed. “So, it was nice to meet you Darach MacTavish but I think I should be going now.”

“And where might you be heading?” His low, rich voice held a note of indulgence.

“I should really be getting home. I have lots of people who’ll worry if I don’t get home.” And that was one whopping lie and a half. Unfortunately, no one would miss her until she didn’t turn up for her next shift two days from now. Even then no one would worry because Torri Campbell would eagerly snitch that Kate was indulging in a condom-a-thon.

“And where are your people?” His raised brows lent him a distinctly wicked, in a pulse-quickening way, look.

Okay. She’d play his game, as if he didn’t know from where she’d been abducted. “Atlanta. Atlanta, Georgia.”

His brow furrowed as though in confusion.

“It’s dark,” he said, nodding his head toward the window cut high into the stone wall, “and night’s no place for a lass alone. Rest, Kate, and in the morn we’ll return you to your people.”

Exhaustion flooded her body and her mind. It was more than she could assimilate. However, she deduced that Darach MacTavish, or whoever was standing naked before her like some warrior of old obviously meant her no harm. That time had come and gone.

“You aren’t going to tie me up are you?”

A glimmer of a smile lurked in his eyes and crooked one corner of his sensual mouth. “I can if you want me to, but it’s not necessary. You are free to leave, but I wouldna advise it.”

“Why not?”

“You are a stranger to these parts. If you leave this room, the women would stone you. The men…well, they aren’t adverse to a comely lass, daft or no. I mean you no harm, Kate Wexford. If I did, you’d have already found it. And don’t think of trying to take my dagger while I sleep. Men have died for less.”

Having felt the press of his blade, she didn’t doubt it. She wrapped the soft wool more tightly around her, ensconcing herself in the same scent that had beckoned to her when she’d been drawn to the damn painting in the first place. Had it been only half an hour ago or a lifetime? She glanced at her watch. It had stopped. This situation was getting weirder by the minute.

And despite the fact that she felt leaden with fatigue, there was no way she was sleeping until she got some answers. But she’d pretend to sleep and then when Tall, Dark and Naked drifted off to la-la land, she’d nose around and see what she could find out.

“I’m not interested in your dagger,” she said, reassuring him. Unfortunately, with his dagger by his side, it was difficult to look at the blade rather than his private sword.

“Be a good lass and get some rest.”

When had anyone last spoken to her in that patronizing tone? Who did he think he was? Oh, yeah. He thought he was the laird of Glenagan. Her eyes drifted closed. She’d…fake…him out until…he…slept….

DARACH KNEW THE MOMENT sleep claimed Kate Wexford. What he still didn’t know, however, was what manner of woman she was. Without question, she was different, with her strange accent and speech and her hair shorn in the manner of a lad. And with all of her odd ways, why had he felt a recognition in his soul, as if he knew her? And how the devil had she found her way to his bed?

He watched her sleep, noting the dark smudges beneath her eyes where her lashes fanned over her cheeks, the bow of her upper lip, the roundness of her bare shoulder, the curve of her breasts and hips covered by his plaid, the delicate arch of her bare feet. And he felt something inside, the same thing he’d first felt when he’d seen her on his bed, a tingle that ran through him from toe to finger tip.

Kate Wexford should have been stopped by his guard-at-arms. Barring that, she should have never made it past the grand hall to the keep. Of certain, she never should have gained access to his chamber. Was everyone in his house asleep or simply daft? By all that was holy, Hamish would answer to him.

He crossed the room, taking care not to slam the door behind him, and made his way down the narrow stairs he’d climbed since he was a wee lad. Within minutes his second in command stood before him as summoned. A year younger than Darach, Hamish’s prematurely gray hair left him looking older. The two had grown up together, watching one another’s backs, forging a friendship deeper than that of a laird and his clansman. Darach trusted Hamish like a brother.

“There’s a lass in my bed,” Darach said.

Hamish cocked his head to one side. “Do you find her comely?”

Darach didn’t know exactly what he thought about the woman. She lacked the striking beauty of some, but there was something about her that unleashed a yearning in him he’d never before known. “She’s fair enough.”

“Then what are ye doin’ standin’ here with me?” Hamish grinned.

“I’m wantin’ to know how a stranger to these parts managed to slip past everyone in this house and find her way to my bed.”

Hamish’s grin faded. “None of the men have reported anyone.”

“Exactly.”

“Do you want me to send someone to fetch her or should I get her myself?”

“No. Leave her be.”

“But—”

“I said leave her be and mention her to no one.” His people were a suspicious lot and with them preparing to march on the English crown…. “Having a strange woman show up would unsettle things for sure. Let me give her some thought.”

Hamish nodded, his gray hair glinting in the light from the sconce. “Where does she say she is from?”

“A place I have never heard of.” He passed a weary hand over his forehead. For a heartbeat he pondered that he might have conjured her in his mind. Nay, the sweet press of her flesh beneath his had been real enough. The confusion and anger darkening her green eyes, her galloping heartbeat beneath him all spoke to a woman of honeyed breath rather than some figment of his imagination.

“And where is she now?” Hamish asked.

“In my bed, where she’ll stay until I decide what I’m going to do with her. I promised her passage home tomorrow, but until I’m certain she isna a Sassenach spy, she will stay. Her name is British enough. Kate Wexford.” It sounded foreign on his tongue. His conscience didn’t quibble at the change of plans. His first responsibility lay in protecting his people. Even so, the thought of her ripe curves beneath his plaid stirred his blood and various and sundry parts. “And I know what I’ll be doin’ with her soon enough.”

“What if she isn’t wanting a tumble?”

He hadn’t thought of that, he’d just thought they hadn’t made it that far yet. “I have yet to bed a lass less than willing.”

“And you ken she’s willing?”

He had yet to meet a woman who wasn’t. “Figure it out for yourself man. She was in my bed with no clothes on.”

“I would ken she’s willing.”

The memory of her pale skin against his plaid stirred his blood. A few bonnie words and the lass would be his for the tumbling. He smiled at Hamish. “Or she will be soon enough.”

KATE AWOKE, instantly alert. There was a lot to be said for the efficacy of power napping she’d perfected as a resident. She knew without glancing about that the Darach MacTavish wannabe was gone—knew it because she didn’t feel him in the room.

What to do? How to get out of here? The problem was the man could return at any moment. She needed help. She needed to let someone know where she was, which she didn’t exactly know, or at least that she’d been taken against her will. She pulled out her cell phone. It was still on, but there wasn’t a signal. Dammit. How could they have whisked her away to a place so remote there was no cell phone signal? Marc Fredericks was pulling a stint with Doctors Without Borders in Zimbabwe and even he had cell service. In freaking Zimbabwe, nonetheless.

Calm. Stay calm. She pulled out and turned on her Blackberry. She waited, but no signal bars showed. What the…? She’d paid a boatload of money for guaranteed service. She had it in writing. The only way she shouldn’t have an Internet signal was if all the satellites were down and that was a technological impossibility.

Exasperated and slightly panicked she stood and went to the window, trying to get her bearings, shivering at the constant draft in the room. The night sky blanketed the earth with an incredible display of stars. She realized she must be about three or four stories up because she could literally see for miles. With a dawning sense of dismay she realized the stars shone so bright because they weren’t competing with street lights. They weren’t competing with any lights. For as far as she could see, which she estimated to be several miles from this vantage point, there were no lights other than the odd pinprick which seemed to be more in keeping with a campfire than a streetlight.

And where were the trees? Every landscape within a several hour drive of Atlanta boasted a canopy of trees but all she saw was rolling hills, desolate and barren in the starlight.

She turned from the window, suddenly feeling frantic. Ohmigod. The picture. The picture from the museum. She’d missed it earlier because it had been out of her line of vision. It was the same, the exact same portrait. At least it looked the same. Okay. Definitely weird. And staring at the picture wouldn’t get her any answers. If she’d fallen through it to get here, ostensibly she should be able to fall through it to get back home. She walked over and tried to keep going. Ow! She bounced off of the picture and the stone wall. That hurt. And she was still here. Damn.

She methodically checked the stone wall. No electrical outlets surreptitiously tucked behind furniture to keep the authenticity of the room. Nope. They simply weren’t there. No central heating and air-conditioning vents. No phone jacks. No nothing except stone walls and floors and a fireplace nearly big enough for her to stand in and a constant draft of cold air. Dread slid down her spine and she pulled the soft wool more tightly around her.

She straightened her back and squared her shoulders, drawing herself up to her full five feet and five-and-a-half inches. Clearly, this room held no answers. She forced herself to walk to the wooden door cut into the stone wall.

She ignored the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. How many times had she watched scary movies and seen the heroine doing something stupid like opening the door to explore when sure as heck something awful awaited her on the other side? But she had to find out what was going on and her only hope was in discovering what lay out there.

She grasped the rustic metal latch and opened it. Just like in the movies, it swung wide with an accompanying screech, not exactly what she needed to settle her nerves.

Cold and inky black swallowed her. A musty dankness permeated the chill. Kate hesitated, her nerve nearly deserting her. She clutched the material around her, finding an odd comfort in the man’s scent clinging to the fabric.

Stairs went up and down in the narrow winding case. Obviously she was in some sort of turret. This just sucked. She wasn’t some princess. She hadn’t been sitting around waiting on her prince to show. There was no prince. And Darach MacTavish was too raw, too much man to be prince material.

She balanced herself along the wall with her right hand and edged her way along the staircase. The cold stone floor freezing against her bare feet, she used her toes to feel over the fairly sharp edge of the stone to the next step. Within seconds, the narrow, curving steps and wall obliterated the meager light from the open bedroom door. But even with her pisspoor sense of direction, she wasn’t likely to get lost with up and down as her only options.

She heard him, smelled him, felt him to her core before she met him in the dark. Not wanting to send them both tumbling down the narrow winding stairs she whispered into the quiet. “MacTavish?”

“Did you miss me that much, Katie-love, that ye had to come looking for me?”

No one called her Katie and certainly no one in their right mind called her Katie-love, but she was in a situation she neither understood nor controlled and he seemed to be in charge so she supposed he could call her whatever struck his fancy. And she didn’t miss the dark note of displeasure underlying his seemingly light remark.

“I was simply trying to get my bearings.”

“And I suppose you missed my suggestion you keep to my room.” He moved a step closer and his body heat enveloped her. There was nowhere to go. His fingers traced the line of her jaw, down the length of her throat to the ridge of her collarbone. He brushed his thumb against her wildly beating pulse. “Or mebbe you wanted me to tie you to my bed. Is that it Katie-love?”

He feathered his hands along her shoulders, down her arms and gently captured her wrists. He raised them above her head and pinned them against the wall with one hand. Cold, rough-hewn stones bit into her shoulders and arms. His hand, callused but warm, cupped her neck and he traced a sensual pattern with his thumb against her throat.

Her breath lodged in her chest, caught up in the mad beating of her heart. Was it him, or the dark, or the situation that heightened her senses? For more than a month, she’d smelled his scent each time she’d visited the museum, and now it evoked the same response, but tenfold. He had her pinned to the wall in a strange place and still a dark, sensual heat coursed through her.

He lowered his head and his hair teased against her bare shoulder. His warm breath danced over her skin. His lips whispered against her, not quite a kiss, over her shoulder, along the line where his plaid covered her breasts. Instinctively she arched her back bringing her closer to his mouth. “Ah, that’s some fine skin you have Katie-love, soft and warm and you smell good too.” He nuzzled where her shoulder met her neck and Kate thought she might melt at the feel of his lips against her skin, the faint scrape of his whiskers. “It could fair drive a man mad to wonder if you’re that soft and smell that good all over. I would like to say all the men would be fair and noble were they to run into you wearing naught but a plaid, but that’s not the case. There are many who’d be driven to seek what you hide beneath and none too particular as to your willingness. So, if you won’t keep yourself safe, I’ll do what I have to do. As laird of Glenagan, it’s my job to look after my people.” He slid his hands down her arms, leaving a trail of fire in his wake.

“But I’m not your people.” Her protest, which she fully intended to be forceful and assertive, somehow got lost in the sensation of his fingers against her bare arms, and came out a hoarse whisper.

He wrapped an arm, much like a band of steel, about her waist. Before she realized what he was up to, he hoisted her off her feet and over one massive shoulder. “Ah, Katie-love, that’s where you are wrong. As long as you’re on my land, you belong to me.”

3

DARACH MACTAVISH was confounded. Ever since he was a wee lad, the lasses had taken a ken to him. So, finding a lass in his bed hadn’t been that surprising. Finding her as bare as a bairn had been something of a boon. But she didn’t seem wont to stay there and that was confounding, as was her strange speech.

He tested the last knot. Katie wouldn’t be going anywhere until he decided she should. He looked down at her stony face. “If you’re uncomfortable, you have no one but yourself to blame.”

She turned her face to the wall, away from him without answering.

“Ye left me no choice. At least I didna bind your legs.” She seemed in no mood for a tumble and to have her on his bed with her legs spread, her ankles bound to the corner posts…well, he didn’t need the temptation.

“Thank you.” She looked at him, anger simmering beneath her stony facade. “You’re wasting both of our time. Obviously you’ve confused me with someone else. People will miss me and the authorities will look for me, but no one will pay you a penny for me.”

“You think I want to ransom you?”

“Why else are you tying me up? Why won’t you let me leave?”

“I’ve told you why, you daft lass.”

“I’m not daft, you jackass…at least I don’t think I am. I just want to go home.” The last word ended on an abrupt note. Was it because she was about to start caterwauling or because she’d said too much?

“Were you perhaps meeting someone to take you home?” He should’ve thought of that before. Of course she wasn’t here alone. Finally, the situation made sense. “Were you sent here to distract me? Who were you on your way to meet? Where were you meeting them?”

A hint of bewilderment lurked behind the frustration in her green eyes. “I don’t know why I’m here. I wish I did. No, that’s not true. I don’t care why I’m here. I just want to wake up and have this dream over.”

Her nonsense held a note of truth. But it was, in fact nonsense, and he pressed her. “Tell me where you’re to meet your people and I’ll take you there. As long as no harm comes to a MacTavish on this night, I’ll set you and your people free. It’s a generous offer and one I won’t grant again, so make your decision wisely, Katie Wexford.”

“I wish I could tell you what you want to know. I would if I could. I’m not stoic or heroic or any of those things. I want a hot shower, a glass of red wine, my silk pajamas and my bed. This—” she glanced around the room and then pointedly at him, “—is not my idea of a good evening.”

Darach crossed to the door. He’d rouse the whole castle. Better to surprise the enemy than be caught unaware. And he’d spent entirely too much of his time talking with this woman. He turned to face her. “I am going to rouse the castle. If your people are here, we’ll find them and you can trust they’ll be shown no mercy. Know that you brought this upon them. Know that you could have saved them and chose to do nothing. Know their blood to be on your hands.”

She nodded. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

By all that was holy, she either spoke the truth or was as touched as they came.

“GATHER THE MEN and ready them to search the castle,” Darach said.

Hamish stood before his laird for the second time that evening and sighed to himself. Darach had been in a state earlier and in no mood for the only explanation he, Hamish could offer. Hamish had held out a slight hope that Darach and the lass might figure it out on their own, but he’d feared it might come to this. His laird and friend, Darach was a strong decisive personality. And even though Hamish had only a faint, general impression of the woman he’d shoved through the portrait, she was undoubtedly made of equally stern stuff. Hamish wished this next part was over with. It promised to be difficult.

“Is this about the strange lass in your bed? I take it she wasn’t up for a tumble?”

“I caught her coming down the stairs after I had told her to stay in my room. I think she was on her way to meet someone. That or she’s been sent as a distraction. Now, gather the men.”

Hamish stood before him without doing his bidding, searching for a way to break his news to Darach. God’s tooth this was going to be awkward. Hamish should’ve already prepared for this. Darach glanced sharply at him. “Time is wasting man.”

“I would like to meet the woman. I think I can explain.”

“I thought you had seen no one enter the castle.”

Hamish was almost positive it was the same woman, but she’d shown up without her clothes? “Let me meet her.”

“And what if we’re bluidy well overrun while you’re up visiting with her?”

“Trust me. Have I ever offered you unwise counsel? Take me to her.”

Hamish regarded the man he’d known and loved like a brother his entire life. More than once he’d entrusted Darach with his life. Hamish hoped he’d do the same now.

Darach turned abruptly and made his way toward the keep. Hamish followed, leaving behind his customary banter, scrambling to decide how best to present the situation to Darach and the lass. It was so much easier when those involved figured it out on their own.

They entered the room, Darach first. The woman spoke. “That was quick. I told you I wasn’t meeting anyone.” Hamish stepped around Darach and smiled a greeting.

Recognition widened her eyes. “You—you…you’re the one who shoved me into the painting. I know it. You’re younger, but I recognize you. I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing but I want out.”

“You brought her here?” Darach reared back, betrayal echoing in his stance. “I asked and—”

“I told you none of the men saw her enter and they didn’t. Hear me out and know it is a strange enough tale I have to tell.”

Kate spoke up from the bed. “Okay. We’re finally getting somewhere and while you’re telling it, how about you untie me.”

Darach looked from Hamish to Kate and shook his head in distrust. “Not until I have heard the tale.”

“The first manner of business would be that this is indeed Glenagan, Scotland and it is November of 1744,” Hamish said with an apologetic smile at Kate.

The woman’s skin grew paler still at his words, all the blood seeming to drain from her body. She should thank Darach that she was flat on her back, else she might have fallen.

“No.” She breathed the single word through clenched lips.

“Who is she?” Darach asked.

Where was a good place to start? Experience had taught him there were no good places to start with this. “She’s a woman from two hundred and sixty years, well two hundred sixty two years to be precise, in the future.”

Darach eyed him as if madness had overcome him.

“Ah. I see you think I’ve gone a might daft and for sure it is a bit hard to believe.” He looked at Darach to show him neither madness nor deception shadowed his eyes. “She is from Georgia, a place that today is a colony of the crown and the city she comes from does not yet exist. She is not British. She and her people are known as Americans.”

“She said you brought her here. So, I’m supposed to believe you are still alive two hundred sixty two years in the future?”

Hamish shrugged. “I told you it’s a strange tale.”

“But you haven’t been gone from the castle.”

“I don’t know how to explain it, but I exist on several different planes, at different points in time, in different places.”

“Are you some kind of dark magic?”

“I don’t know what I am.” He’d ceased long ago to feel sorrow over his unusual state. “I’ve just learned to accept it. I can’t make anything happen. But things happen through me.” He gestured to the painting on the wall. “That painting spoke to you, drew you, did it not, lass?”

“Yes.” Her skin flushed to a rosy glow.

“You’ve seen that painting before?” Darach asked her.

“Yes. It was in a traveling exhibit, Sex Through the Ages, in the Atlanta museum.”

“Sex Through the Ages?” Darach frowned at her.

“I didn’t name the thing,” Kate snapped back at him. “I just showed up for the viewing.”

Hamish jumped in to get the conversation back on track. “And the draw was so strong you couldn’t stay away?”

“Yes. Did you do that to me? Did you cast some kind of spell?”

“No. What you felt was between the two of you. That’s the way it works. I don’t pick anyone. If you weren’t supposed to be here, if on some level you didn’t want to be here, you wouldn’t.”

“Wait a second. Something’s obviously gotten screwed up somewhere along the line. I definitely don’t want to be here. I want to be home. You’ve got the wrong gal. I think you meant to snag my friend Jordan. She’s a history major. Trust me. She’d much rather be here, well, maybe not tied to the bed,” she glared in Darach’s direction, “but she’s into history and this would be right up her alley. Trust me on this. I’m not the person for this. I don’t do history. I’ve never even been to the Renaissance festival ’cause I don’t like that stuff. I’m a techno freak. I love the conveniences of modern life. Electricity. Running water. Flush toilets. CAT scans. Penicillin. Starbucks.”

“Aye. A mocha latte grande is a thing of beauty.”

“See. You understand. You have to send me back.”

He upended his palms in a gesture of helplessness. “I can not. Only you can send yourself back.”

“No. That’s not true. ’Cause I’d be home right now if I could. And I tried to go through the picture earlier.”

“No, lass, ’tis yourself that has brought you here. You wanted to be here so much you were willing to come as bare as a bairn. And once you have taken care of what you came here for, you’ll return.”

Darach stood, arrogant, commanding, smug. “So the lass wanted a tumble with me that bad, did she?”

“Actually, your need for her was so strong that she felt it coming through.”

“Now I know you are daft, man. I don’t need her.” He eyed her stretched out on his bed, clad in his plaid. “Now, there is no denying I want her. I’m willing to tumble a comely lass, but I don’t need her. There is any number of lasses willing to warm my bed.”

“You are the most arrogant, pig-headed, macho, blustering bag of hot air. Whatever faint glimmer of attraction I felt at one point for a man in a picture has totally dissipated having experienced your lack of charm first-hand.”

Darach’s mouth tightened. “Aye. And I can do without a viper-tongued wench.”

“Wench? Wench? Lass is one thing, but did you just call me a wench? I’ll have you know I’m a doctor. No one calls me a wench. I passed my boards with flying colors. I could take you apart and put you back together with my eyes closed.”

“That may all be well and true, Katie-love, but while you are here, I’m the laird.”

Hamish let himself out of the room. For the time being, his work was done.

4

“NOW, DO YOU THINK you can untie me?” Kate said. “I can prove to you I’m from the twenty-first century.”

As fantastical concept as it was, she was convinced she’d somehow time traveled. The old guy who now looked young and satellite absence had made a believer of her. However, she thought that business about her wanting to be here was a load of horse manure. In no way, shape, form or fashion did she want to be here.

Maybe that conductor guy had smoked some crack. Did they have crack in 1744? She knew virtually nothing about historic mind-altering drugs. For that matter, she knew precious little about historic anything. It wasn’t her deal.

“I will unbind you if I have your word you’ll remain in this room, otherwise, for your own good, I’ll keep you bound to my bed.” He stood at the end of the bed, strong legs braced apart, thick arms crossed over his massive chest.

He wasn’t blustering. He was giving her a choice. She didn’t doubt for a moment he could and would keep her tied to the bed if she didn’t cooperate. In fact, she could scream herself silly and it wouldn’t matter. He was in charge and no one would cross him. She didn’t have to know jack about history to know that. She recognized absolute power and in this world, Darach MacTavish was literally a law unto himself.

“I promise. I’ll stay in this room.”

He moved with a grace uncommon to a man of his size and knelt on the bed. Sensation fluttered low in her belly. His scent, the same that had drawn her over and over again for the past several weeks, was even more potent and alluring up close and personal. Dark hair was sprinkled tantalizingly along his legs and forearms, and she knew for a certain, blood-stirring fact that he was naked beneath his kilt. Muscles corded in his arms as he worked loose the knot binding her left hand. His hair swung forward, a dark curtain drawn on the harsh line of his nose, the bold line of his jaw, and the sensuous curve of his lips.

His fingers pressed against her wrist and palm as he worked at the knot in the material. She touched people all day, checking pulses, feeling for abnormalities, but this…this was different altogether. Her pulse leapt and tingles spread through her.

Kate flushed at his touch and the heat it evoked. She should look away—study the ceiling and mentally review the last cases she’d seen at work. But she couldn’t look away, couldn’t redirect her attention because that incredible surge of heat and lust and want drew her to him. It was a yearning born from deep within that surpassed attraction and even will. She didn’t want to feel drawn to him. She didn’t want to ache for more of his touch.

The fabric gave way, releasing her wrist…until he recaptured it in his hands. He stroked her pulse point, performing a sensual massage with his thumb. “I hope it didna hurt you.” The low timbre of his voice thrummed through her. He looked at her and there was no denying the heat smoldering in his gaze. Without looking away, he slowly brought her wrist to his mouth until his warm breath whispered against her flesh.

Her heart thundered in her chest. She ought to snatch her hand away but, God help her, she wanted to know the feel of that exquisitely sensual mouth against her skin. Wanted to know if the inherent promise in those well-shaped lips was real or merely fantasy’s fodder.

He pressed a kiss to her wrist and sweet heat poured through her. He nuzzled and suckled the flesh as if he were savoring a delicate treat. Instinctively she curled her fingers against his cheek. He lifted his head. “You would think me naught but a brutish Highlander were I tae bruise you.”

She reclaimed her hand and wet her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. “I’m fine. If you would just untie my other hand now.”

“As you wish, Katie-love.” She fully expected him to walk around to the other side of the bed. Instead, Darach MacTavish, with a wicked smile, climbed atop and straddled her. Powerful thighs braced on either side of her, he leaned forward and worked at the other knot.

What she’d felt outside that portrait now increased exponentially. She was wantonly, wickedly aware that except for two soft bits of cloth, she and this magnificent male specimen were naked. The heavy length of him pressed against her hip as he leaned over her. Stretched above her at the angle he was, the scar she’d daydreamed about earlier was slightly visible.

She reached up and traced her finger down the puckered line marring his back. His skin was warm and supple on either side of the scar’s hard ridge. Did she imagine the small shudder that ran through him?

“That must have hurt.”

He straightened and despite his arrogant grin, his eyes held the same hard glint they had when she’d made her stupid Queen of England quip. “’Twas just a scratch. I found the wrong end of a sword.”

“How were you stitched up?” Her training left her curious. She was certain it wasn’t a couple of shots of Lidocaine to numb it and then vicryl and ethilon sutures to close it up.

“We were a night’s ride from Glenagan. My father poured a measure of whiskey in it and then sewed it back together with horsehair.”

Whiskey in an open wound of that size must have been excruciating. “And you rode the next day?”

He shrugged. “We had a pressing need to get back. Sima applied a poultice when I returned and it was nary a problem. I was but a lad and healed quickly.”

He’d released her other wrist, absently rubbing her flesh. Kate needed to get herself out of this situation—both the immediate situation of being flat on her back with Braveheart sending her into a hormonal meltdown and the situation of having lost a century or two. And that meant focusing on something other than this man’s powerful thighs braced on either side of her legs, the shattering slide of his fingers against her skin, his scent, the fact that she was in his bed.

She swallowed and tried to project the decisive, I’m-in-charge voice that worked so well in the ER. “I’d like to get up now that you’ve untied me.”

He shifted off of her without saying anything but his arrogant smile spoke volumes, telling her he knew exactly how he affected her.

She stood and double-checked the knot holding her makeshift toga-kilt in place. “The sooner we can figure out how to get me back to where I belong and out of your hair, the better.”

KATIE WEXFORD CROSSED to stand before the waning fire and dug in her satchel. To be certain, it’d be much simpler if she weren’t here, but he didn’t want her gone. Yet. He’d thought to taunt her when he’d straddled her but he’d been effectively hoisted by his own petard. Her skin had felt like the finest wool beneath his fingertips. Her skin had tasted like a draught of the smoothest whiskey that lit a fire in his belly and left him wanting more.

Even if she was touched. And Hamish seemed to have caught her madness. But ‘twas a fact that the daft were touched by God and it was his job to protect both Kate and Hamish, now more than ever. Best to humor them both until he could decide on a plan of action.

But ‘twas also obvious Kate and Hamish were not strangers. Were it any other man, he’d have them both under guard. But more than once Hamish had proven himself loyal and trustworthy. Twice he’d covered Darach’s back in a skirmish when a dagger finding its home would have made Hamish laird since Darach had no offspring. Nay, perhaps both Kate and Hamish suffered from a fever that had affected their reasoning.

He followed her and tossed more peat onto the fire. The flickering light danced across her naked shoulders and the length of her neck bared by her shorn hair. Her scent, clean and fresh, like the moor on a sunny day, stirred his senses. Mayhap he was in danger of catching the same fever to be affected this way by a daft lass.

Footsteps pounded up the stone stairs and Hamish burst into the room carrying a young lad of no more than five. The lad, son of Anice and Grahame, lay still, his eyes closed, his face blue, water dripping from his hair and body. Hamish’s chest heaved and he spoke between great gulps of air. “I found…the lad…in the burn. Ye’ll have to tell his parents. Anice will near grieve herself to death.”

“Give me the boy,” the woman said, freeing the knot and yanking off the MacTavish plaid as she spoke, leaving herself naked once again.

The woman was truly mad.

“For God’s sake, I’m a doctor. This is what I do. Give him to me. I think I can save him.”

Without waiting and without regard for her naked state, she wrapped the plaid about the child and placed him on the floor. Without pause, she bent and blew a breath into his mouth. Again she repeated the action. The third time around, the lad retched water and blinked his eyes open.

By all that was holy…the lad had been dead and now he was alive. “What kind of magic are you?”

The woman looked at him with a mixture of exasperation and disgust. “It’s not magic. It’s medicine. I told you, I’m a doctor and that’s called resuscitation.” She smoothed a hand over the child’s brow. “He’ll be fine.” She stood and looked at Hamish. “Get him into dry clothes and let him sleep a while.”

Hamish left with the lad and Darach dug out yet another plaid for Katie. He studied her anew as she once again wrapped herself in the red and blue MacTavish colors.

“You saved the lad.” She had truly reacted as a healer.

“It’s what I’m trained to do. Anyone from my time period trained in basic rescue could’ve done the same,” she said.

Could it be possible? Was Hamish speaking the truth? Could it be so that Hamish wasn’t simply daft and the woman had come from the future? It could not be so.

Kate picked her satchel up from the floor where she’d dropped it when Hamish had entered. “I can see you’re still not convinced I am who I say I am.” She dug in the satchel and pulled out a card. “Here. It’s my driver’s license.” She handed him a card and pointed to a date. “There’s my birthdate.” Darach excelled at sums. He was two hundred and sixty-four years older than Kate Wexford.

What the devil was this? It was a portrait of her, yet not a portrait. “What kind of portrait is this?”

“It’s a picture. A photograph.” She shrugged, her palms upright. “I’m not sure when photography was invented. Obviously later than this.”

He studied the card. It didn’t do her justice. Short flaxen hair curled about her face. Wide green eyes with a hint of a frown marring her brow stared at him from the portrait. No smile lifted the corners of her full mouth. It did nothing to capture her wry humor and resilience. “Well, you’re more comely than this. I hope you didn’t pay much for the rendering.”

Her smile stopped just short of a laugh. “Thanks…I think. The DMV isn’t much into glamour shots.”

He had no idea what a DMV or a glamour shot was but he supposed it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was only about two hundred sixty-four years older than her. And he’d never seen anything like what she called a photograph.

He no longer doubted Hamish. He’d only ever known him to speak the truth and it appeared that it was truth rather than madness. Except the notion that he, Darach, needed this woman and that was why she was here. Her scent teased him, as did the gleam of light on her skin. He’d not deny he wanted her, but there was a world of difference between want and need. He’d wanted women and had them, but he’d never needed them.

“It explains much—your strange accent and manner of speech, your hair—but not why you are here.”

Kate glanced up from returning her card to her satchel. “I assure you I don’t want to be here, regardless of what Hamlet said.”

He’d be damned if she didn’t glare at him as if he was to blame for her being here. “It’s Hamish and might I remind you that you’re the one who showed up naked in my bed.”

She tilted her head at a haughty angle and stared down the length of her nose at him. “A gallant man wouldn’t have pointed that out and trust me, I want to be back home.”

He laughed and knew it held a mocking note. He took a step closer to her. “But you were attracted to me in that painting?” He could feel it now, like some force beneath the inky waters of a loch, something deep and strong between them, something potent beneath the surface.

She blinked, looking up at him and in that moment, he recognized an answering flash of acknowledgement in her eyes. “Yes, I’ll admit I was attracted to you when I saw the painting.” She smiled with a sweetness he didn’t trust. “Of course, that was before your personality factored into it.”

Darach threw back his head and laughed. Mayhap she had a strange way with words, but her meaning was clear. Ah, but he was enjoying himself with Katie Wexford. Most of the lasses fair swooned over him. Certainly none had complained about his personality. And he thought Katie was not being exactly truthful. He reached out and tested a measure of her hair between his fingers. Her eyes widened and her lips parted. With great care he tucked the curl behind her well-shaped ear, his fingers lingering against the delicate shell. Her swift intake of breath echoed the pounding of his heart. “Aye, so that means you do not fancy me now?”

She wet her lower lip with the tip of her tongue and lust knotted his gut. “Not particularly,” she said. Her breathy tone belied her words.

Aye. She was lying. She wanted him as much as he wanted her and it wasn’t arrogance on his part. It wasn’t fear that left her trembling at his slightest touch. There was fire between them and if he had unraveled this correctly, she needed to admit it. He skimmed his palm over her bare shoulder and heat raced through him. “More’s the pity.”

She held her ground, despite the shiver he felt run through her, and narrowed her eyes at him. “Why do you say that?”

He rested his hands on the smoothness of her bare shoulders, her skin warm and soft beneath his callused palms. He curled his fingers against her sweet flesh. “Because it seems to me that it was lust that brought you here…”

“Perhaps.”

“Then it stands to reason that if you satisfy that lust, you should go back to where you came from.”

“Congratulations! That’s probably the strangest pick-up line I’ve ever heard. And I don’t think so.”

“I’m just trying to help you out, Katie-love.” He bracketed her shoulders with his hands, her skin soft beneath his palms.

She shrugged off his touch. “That’s terribly generous of you.”

He trailed one finger down her arm. “I’m known for my generosity.”

“Uh-huh. I’ll just bet you are.” She swatted his hand away.

Satisfied that she wanted him, he smiled at her, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m just trying to help you get back to where you want to be.”

KATE PACED to the other side of the room. Not only did pacing help her think, but it got her out of Darach MacTavish’s immediate vicinity, which was a bonus in the being able to think department.

Maybe she’d told a little white lie—okay, a whopping white lie—when she said she wasn’t as attracted to him as she had been. It was more a matter of she shouldn’t be as attracted to him as she had been. But here she’d met this man, under circumstances beyond weird, and he was proposing they have sex? She didn’t think so.

She took a deep breath and her practical side kicked in. Wasn’t she bringing twenty-first century mores to a situation where they didn’t exactly belong? What were they going to do? Go out to dinner a couple of times? Go to a movie and perhaps a night out at the museum to get to know one another better?

What was the courting ritual in eighteenth-century Scotland? Damn if she knew. And she didn’t want to be courted, she just wanted to go home.

For one panic-inducing moment the thought crept in that she might not be able to get back home. What then? What if she was stuck here? No! She refused to think that way. And maybe Darach MacTavish was on to something. She knew for certain she didn’t want to hang out here any longer than necessary.

She liked the twenty-first century. No, that wasn’t true. She loved the twenty-first century. And she’d worked too damn hard to get that assistant appointment. She wasn’t about to lose her job because she’d been squandering time in the past. And she supposed if she was going to have sex, there were worse specimens out there than the one before her. It probably wouldn’t be too bad—if she could just get him to keep his mouth shut.

And much as she didn’t want to think in the direction of being stuck here, if she was stuck here for more than a couple of hours, being the chief’s lover was probably the safest position to take. But could she just turn off all her years of upbringing and hop in bed with a man who was essentially a stranger? She knew some women fantasized about stuff like this. She wasn’t one of them. She just didn’t know if she had it in her.

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe sex together is the key.”

The bastard actually laughed. “I’ve seen men more enthusiastic who were about to be hung.”

“I’m in a different freaking century and I have no clue whether I’m actually going to make it back to where I want to be. You’re a stranger and I’m supposed to be jumping up and down at the prospect of having sex with you?” Bottom line, she was scared. Nearly spitless. “I’m sure sex with strangers is nothing new to you, but it’s not part of my regimen.”

All the arrogance and amusement vanished, replaced by a kindness she hadn’t noted before. “I think things are very different where you come from, I’m sure of it. But no, few strangers show up in these parts and those that do, I don’t bed as a rule.” He reached out and drew her to him, but it was a gesture of comfort, an offer of protection, which felt almost as foreign to Kate as sex with a stranger. “This must be a terrible situation to find yourself in, Katie-love. We won’t take any more action tonight. Rest and on the morn we’ll work on this.”

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