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Squish her?

What kind of a threat was that? Clout, throttle, beat the crap out of her, whatever, but squish? Not.

Claire craned her neck and found MacLeod’s eyes closed, his great, sweeping lashes resting against his chiseled cheekbones. In the glow of the street lamp, she studied the relaxed set of his mouth, his smooth forehead, the arm heavy but loose over her waist. Feeling his chest move, brushing ever so slightly against her back with the long easy breaths of someone in deep slumber, she wondered if he really was asleep.

Whether he was or not, at least she didn’t have to listen to his turn-her-knees-to-jelly burr anymore. Not that she’d be getting any sleep anytime soon. Not with all this muscle surrounding her, not to mention the body heat infusing her every pore with the scent of male musk.

God, he smelled good. Even if he had used all her newly purchased Lavender Fields shampoo for limp, flyaway hair. And didn’t that teach her to be more succinct?

She’d told him shampoo was for washing his hair, never imagining he’d use it wherever he had hair … which, if memory served, was pretty much everywhere except his back, which was really a good thing. She wasn’t into furry backs, no matter how soft the hair might be, which was really a very good thing because his type—the strong, silent, total hottie type—didn’t go for the likes of mousey-brown her. They went for the golden Tracy Simpsons of the world.

She let out a wistful sigh, one her mother, had she heard it, would have criticized with Dreamers never get anywhere, child.

She never should have opened that damn box. But she had and there was apparently no undoing it. Or was there?

Thinking to appease Cam, she’d promised to take him to the library after breakfast. Hoped to set him up with every Scottish research book that the library had, then leave him to his own devices for a few hours while she grilled Mr. Brindle again about the money Tavish left her, but perhaps she should do some research as well. On ancient curses. Surely the library would have something useful on the topic. If not, she could always initiate an interlibrary search. Or make a trip to Salem.

Hmm, I wonder … “Cam, are you asleep?”

He grunted, sending the scent of chocolate and mint—of Mrs. Grouse’s grasshopper pie—across her cheek. “I was.”

She grinned. “No you weren’t, or you wouldn’t have heard my whisper.”

“I have verra acute hearing.”

She didn’t doubt it. “Do you believe in witches? That they’re real? I mean do you honestly think they might be more than gifted healers? That they have powers?”

He snorted. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

There was that. “Would you know a real one from a fraud?”

“I expect so. Why?”

“I know of one … in Salem.”

He rose up on an elbow to look down at her. “Are ye serious? You ken such?”

She rolled onto her back to see him better and hit the warm spot he’d left. “I don’t know her personally, just of her by reputation. The papers always do a story about witches at Halloween—what I think you call All Hallows Eve. I bet we can find her through the Internet.”

Elbow still propped, he rested his head on a hand. “I dinna ken this inner net.”

“It’s part of the computer … that box with the map.”

“Ah. And she can speak to you through the box?”

“Yes, but given the serious nature of this situation, I think we should meet with her face to face.” So the woman didn’t blow them off or worse, feed them the canned info she probably sent out to all who made inquiries—maybe a bio and a buy-a-book promo or visit-her-herb-shop kind of crap. And Cam should evaluate the woman. For all Claire knew, the Salem witch was more Shylock than warlock.

“When shall we go?”

“After breakfast. I’ll give my friend Tracy a call and ask if she’d mind watching the shop for a while. If she can’t, then maybe Victor can.”

He leaned forward, close enough to make Claire’s breath catch. “Who,” he asked, “is Victor?”

“He’s my merchandiser, very creative … and cheap. The perfect match for a struggling shopkeeper with a limited budget and no natural design talent.”

“Match.” His brow furrowed and he picked up a lock of her hair. Swirling the tip between forefinger and thumb, he said, “As I recall, ye said there wasna a man in yer life.”

“There isn’t. Victor is just a friend.”

“Hmm, and how long has this friendship been going on?”

“Since the shop opened three years ago. He came in, introduced himself—he lives four doors down—and asked how things were going.” She made an unladylike snort. “I told him the truth. He strolled around and said, ‘No wonder. This place looks like a convenience store with everything lined up in tight little rows.’ Next thing I knew, he was moving stuff around and rearranging everything and voilà, perfection.”

He arched an eyebrow. “And in exchange?”

“I hand his business cards to all my customers.”

“Has he been having the same troubles that ye’re having with windows?”

“No, his studio is in another part of the city, but others on the street have had their windows broken.”

“And do they pay the blackmail to these deevil’s buckies?”

“Interesting phrasing. As for the other merchants, I don’t know if they’re paying or not, but suspect they wouldn’t tell me if they were. All I know for sure is that right now, I’m the only one replacing glass every time I turn around.”

He nodded, silently studying her, his gaze traveling over her face before settling on her lips, making her heart trip, her stomach quiver. Her gaze shifted to his mouth, his lips, not too full and not too thin, curving up ever so slightly at the corners only a few inches from her own. So close.

Would he kiss her? She wanted him to. The first had been such a shock she hadn’t had time to savor it. Just once more, please, so she could have something to remember, perhaps cherish, after he left and she was old and gray.

As if reading her mind, he jerked upright and rocked back on his haunches. Looking out the windows, he said, “Dawn will be breaking shortly and there’s a curse to be undone. We’d best get to it.”

He rose, taking his warmth and their momentary intimacy with him. Something deep within her shrank.

Towering above her, he held out a hand. “My lady.”

Right. If only.

She placed her hand in his. As she came to her feet she glanced at the regulator ticking away above Tavish’s ship. Five o’clock. Where had the night gone?

“First, we need to find a coat that fits you. The stores open at nine o’clock. Then we can go to the library. If we don’t find what we’re—”

“Nay, I havena need of a coat. I have me breachen feile.” In a tone that brooked no argument, he added, “First we go to the library, then we find the witch.”

“Why you—”

At a loss for words, she snarled and headed for the stairs. A sudden bark of laughter followed her, but thankfully grew softer, like wisps of smoke drifting up a chimney … much like her hopes of someone like him ever finding someone like her attractive.

Peering down the metal rails, Claire muttered, “Please stop fidgeting. People are staring.”

“I’m not fidgeting. Auld women and bairns fidget. And I still dinna ken why we have to take yer empty-ay. The library is only a few hectares from here.” As for the women staring at him, women always did.

“Cam, the library is a mile away through shoulder-high snow banks. Besides, last I heard you were in a hurry.”

Aye, he was. He had to get back to when—and where—he belonged before his clan joined the Stuart, else they take the path of destruction, and he had to do so before he seduced the innocent and na?ve Ms. Claire MacGregor.

Christ’s blood, had he kissed her in those wee hours as he’d dearly wanted, when she’d looked up at him with those sea green eyes so soft, her chestnut hair spread out like an angel’s wings across his pallet, her lips parted, waiting, he would have been more than hard pressed to stop at just a wee kiss. She was too bonnie and he’d been too long without a woman. Worse, she hadna appeared the least inclined to stop him. In fact, he’d have wagered his sword that she’d have gone to her ruin willingly. And that simply wouldna do.

’Twas one matter to lay with a doxy or needy widow, to take a wee bit of pleasure with a willing companion, but ’twas quite another to take a virginal lass who’d been naught but kind, only to desert her in the end. And leave her he would. And what if he’d gotten her with bairn? Oh, he kenned ways to prevent her getting with child, but could he have pulled away? He seriously doubted it.

The rumble and scrape of metal on metal jerked his attention right, where he found a huge, snaking conveyance lumbering toward them.

When it came to a halt, Claire led the way to an open door. With no small measure of trepidation, he followed her inside where she stopped before a glass and metal box that chinked and clattered merrily as it devoured her coins.

They found a seat toward the rear of the coach, the doors closed without a hand touching them and they were off, the carriage rocking in ever quickening side-to-side motion so unlike that of a horse-drawn coach. Peering out both the front and rear windows, he asked, “What pulls this beast along?”

“Electricity. When we’re above ground, the power comes in through a roof-mounted cable. When below ground, there’s a live third rail. You never, ever go near the rails while underground. They’ll kill you.”

Ah, she’d explained electricity—the captured lightning—as she’d tended his wounds. “Like the stun gun?”

“A hundred times stronger than the stun gun.”

Humph! Not something he cared to experience again. Perhaps while at the library he should also ask for texts on electricity. If his people could master this energy as Claire’s had, ’twould make for a powerful weapon to use against the English. Picturing thousands of clansmen aiming stun guns at unsuspecting Sassenach, he grinned.

The coach picked up speed and the wheels squealed in protest. As the rocking increased to a jarring shudder, he studied his fellow passengers noting their varied countenances, which ranged from apple-cheeked and red noses to those that were nearly pitch black. Few resembled him or his countrymen, a disconcerting sensation.

Apparently noticing he was exchanging baleful stares with a bronze-skinned youth who stood swaying, one hand gripping a strap, his breeches hanging half off his ass, Claire elbowed him and whispered, “It’s impolite to make eye contact.”

What foolishness was this? “Why?”

“It just is.”

“Humph.” These people were most bizarre. Meeting a man eye to eye was often the only way for one to measure another’s intent, to ken if a stranger was friend or foe. And someone needed to take note of the poor lad, loan him the coins for a belt before his scrawny ass froze off. Had Cam any coins, he certainly would have given the lad a few.

Wheels screeched and their coach slowed as unseen hands applied breaks. Instinctively, Cam wrapped an arm around Claire to keep her from falling sideways. When they came to a stop, passengers began milling. A woman ponderous with child, her arms laden with packages, entered, and Cam rose, indicating she should sit next to Claire. She smiled up at him but before she could angle her way to his seat, a group of youths rushed in, jostling those around them. One, spying the space next to Claire, headed for it and Cam stepped in his path. “ ’Tis for the lady.”

The lad, apparently oblivious to the danger he courted, scowled up at him, one hand slipping into a pocket, mayhap for a knife. Stretched and sneering, he asked, “Says who?”

Beside him, Claire hissed, “Cameron.”

Cam held up a hand to silence her, his gaze locked on the cocky, ill-mannered youth. “Says I.”

The lad’s eyes narrowed, his hand moving within his pocket as he took Cam’s measure. It took a moment but the youth finally broke eye contact, shrugged, and then walked away in an odd hitch-and-rock fashion to his companions, who laughed and jabbed his middle.

Bloody hell. First a gang attacked Claire’s establishment and now this. Where the hell were the fathers? Someone really needed to take these young knaves in hand and slam some sense into them.

He felt a tug on his arm and turned to find Claire standing at his side. “We get off at the next stop. Come on.”

She wedged her way through the packed humanity to the door. When it opened, she rushed down the stairs and nearly fell headlong into a snow bank.

As he steadied her, he asked, “Are you all right?”

“No, I’m not all right. You could have been killed! Didn’t you notice that kid had a knife? He’s a gangbanger, had a tear tattoo. That means he’s killed someone.”

“Claire, lass, dinna fash yerself.” He pushed up his left sleeve, revealing the foot-long carving knife strapped to his forearm, the one he’d pilfered from her kitchen cabinet. “And all’s well that ends well, aye?”

Claire gaped at the blade for a moment, then up at him. “I don’t friggin’ believe this.”

Muttering to herself some words about bales, bonds, and men, she turned and stomped away. Totally nonplussed, he shouted, “What? What did I do now?”

Claire spun, hunched her shoulders and threw her hands in the air as if he were the most hapless creature to ever draw breath. Uncertain as to why—naught untoward, after all, could have befallen him—the gangbanger on the other hand …

Deciding there was no kenning the female mind, he heaved a sigh and followed Claire as she continued to stomp, slide, and mutter her way toward the flashing walk—do not walk sign, which in his opinion was pure foolishness. If a man wasna bright enough to stay out of the way of an oncoming coach, then he deserved to be run over.

He reached her just as the red hand disappeared and the wee white man appeared and suddenly there before him was the Boston Public Library, or so said the engraving above the wide doors and broad granite steps gleaming wet in the morning sun. Such grandness! The building reminded him of the renderings he’d seen of Rome. Within those dense granite blocks Claire promised he’d find the knowledge he sought. If the information he sought couldn’t be found within, Claire had assured him, then it wasn’t to be had.

Anxious to start, he took the stairs two and three at a time only to come to a sudden halt once inside. Ack! Never in his life had he seen such.

Neck craned, he spun slowly, studying the fine frescos on the lofty ceiling supported by columns, admiring the wonderful echoing great hall. He inhaled and caught the scent of old leather and paper, of wisdom. Aye, ’twas definitely the place.

Claire, apparently no longer miffed with him for whatever reason, smiled as she came abreast and motioned to her left. “We have to go upstairs. This,” she told him as they climbed, “is the MacKin Building, the original library, but now it houses only the noncirculating collection—the research books. The white building you saw next door houses what we call the circulating collection, the books you can borrow and take home.”

A quarter hour later and much to his amazement, Claire had a mountain of books on the broad oak table before him. In awe, he murmured, “So many.”

Claire nodded. “We Americans do love the Scots. It’s all those hairy knees poking out from beneath yer flashy kilts.”

“Aha, ye can jest. I was beginning to wonder.”

Fighting a grin, she opened the thick volume before her. “Now pay attention. All you have to do is look for Culloden in the index. Here’s one. Page 221.” She flipped the pages, scanned the text, then pushed the book and several scraps of paper toward him. “If you have any questions, write them down. If you want to research specific names or places, write those down as well, and we can ask that nice librarian over there behind the desk to find the information for you.”

As she rose, he asked, “And where shall ye be?”

“In the next room. Researching time travel and curses.”

Ah, verra good. He shifted his attention back to the text. “Have a bonnie time.”

“Ya.”

The moment Claire disappeared from view, Cam rose and went to the bone-thin woman with gray hair who sat behind the desk. “My pardon, mistress.”

She looked up, blinked, then suddenly smiled, a hand slipping to the bun at the back of her neck. “How may I help you?”

He leaned an elbow on the counter and flashed the smile he used whenever he needed to wheedle a boon out of Minnie. “Would ye happen to have any books on electricity or on combustible engines?” That’s what Claire had said powered the taxis and buses.

Color rushed into her cheeks. “Why yes, sir, we do. How much detail do you require?”

Claire scanned the titles on the computer screen looking for anything dealing with Celtic curses and puzzle boxes. “No. No. Ah, maybe this one.” She scribbled the title and call number and continued scanning. Thirty minutes later, her arms loaded with books, she found an unoccupied table and spread the texts before her.

Somewhere within the pages had to be the answer.

Three hours later, she knew more than she ever wanted to know about Celtic legends, puzzle box construction, and curses—most of which read like bad poetry—but not a damn thing about undoing the curse that had brought Sir Cameron MacLeod into her life.

She heaved a sigh. Good God almighty, what was she going to do with him if she couldn’t undo this?

Exhausted, she placed her arms on the table and plunked her head down. And her carving knife … jeesh, hadn’t he learned anything from his arrest yesterday? What if they’d had to go through a metal detector to get into the library? At the rate he was going, she’d have to put Brindle on retainer—she had the money, thanks to Tavish—but at $400 an hour, how long would that last? And she’d rather not have to do it. She’d much prefer Cam stayed out of trouble.

What would Cam do if she couldn’t send him back in time? He was so out of his element here. He couldn’t live with her forever. And how would he make a living? There wasn’t much call these days for men with swords, although he was good with his hands, had sealed her broken door frame in admirable fashion in nothing flat, but he was also used to being his own man. So … alpha.

Oh, he had a good heart, had been courtesy itself when dealing with Mrs. Grouse.

As for his awareness of her, he’d been ever cognizant of her safety whenever it appeared threatened. She’d noticed how he’d eased her out of the path of those kids dressed in Goth getups last night, although there really wasn’t a need. But then he didn’t know that. And his arm, strong and thick, had wrapped around her as they were skidding out of control in the cab. Hell, he’d even decked Brindle, thinking the man had accosted her.

Poor Brindle. She grinned, picturing the attorney as he sat on her sofa, mouth agape, face flushed, listening to her tale of finding Cam naked in her room—but then it hadn’t been funny as he bled all over her carpet

Truth to tell, MacLeod was solid testosterone. Should he really come unglued, she wouldn’t be able to handle him and that frightened her. Men in her world just didn’t go around chest out and armed to the teeth, looking gangbangers in the eye, ready to maim at the slightest provocation. Well, unless they were cops or drug dealers …

Oh hell, who was she kidding? Any woman would be lucky to have Cameron MacLeod, gorgeous and as intelligent as he is, but in his own time and place. Not hers.

“Bloody fuckin’ hell!”

Claire jerked upright. Oh God, now what?

The deep-throated roar of outrage was followed by the crash of wood on wood.

She ran, praying Cam had inadvertently knocked something over.

Arriving in the next room, she found the hundred-pound oak table she’d left Cam sitting at upended, books strewn all over the floor, the once hushed room now buzzing. Several patrons, looking pale, were pointing to the mess. The frail but competent librarian who’d helped her when she and Cam had first arrived stood ashen-faced behind her desk, a phone pressed to her ear. No doubt calling security.

Claire raced to the woman. “Where is he? The Highlander. Where did he go?”

The woman pointed a shaky finger toward the stairs and the crowd forming around it.

“Out of my way!” Claire elbowed her way through the milling gawkers and took the stairs at a breakneck pace. In the lower foyer, she found everyone looking over their shoulders at the doors. She hit the doors running and bolted outside, only to have to slow at the top of the wide granite steps to let her eyes adjust to the blinding sunshine. Squinting, she scoured the sidewalks, right and left, then the students before her shifted and the panic that had been building suddenly eased. He stood only a dozen steps below her. “Cam!”

He turned at the sound of her voice and her heart nearly broke, so desolate was his expression.

“Shit.” She never should have left him alone with those books.

She raced down the remaining stairs, stopping one step above him, so they were nearly eye to eye. “What’s wrong? Talk to me.”

“They were all killed, Claire. The Butcher … his name was Cumberland. The battle was over in less than an hour. Seeing as he was winning, he ordered his army to spare no one. No quarter were his words. Not a clansman was allowed to surrender. More than a thousand, able-bodied and wounded alike, given the ax after … after …”

He took a shuddering breath and his eyes—already glassy—flooded. “Da, my brothers—slaughtered.” He struggled to clear his throat. “Rubha. They razed it. Minnie, even the bairns …” He took another shaky breath, blinking back tears. “I have to get back, Claire. I have to get—”

His voice cracked and the tears he’d valiantly managed to hold at bay suddenly spilled, wet traces flowing sideways into laugh lines, then slipping like thieves, flat and low over the high planes of his cheeks, and she did the only thing she could do. She wrapped her arms about him. There before God, the pigeons, and a group of owl-eyed Brownies, she held him and wept right along with him.

His arms about her waist, her arms about his neck, with only the irregular bone-cracking heave of his chest against her breasts telling her he sobbed, she held tight to him and wept for him and for herself. Having been the one to find her mother’s body, she’d been too stunned and horrified to grieve and later too filled with fury to give in to the heartache.

When their shaking subsided, became only random jerks, she pressed her cheek to his and whispered, “You will go home, Cam. I promise. I will get you home.”