Page 14

“Cam, where the—”

Oh God, she was going to be sick again.

With her head killing her, Claire had no time to do anything more than lean over her kitchen sink. In what felt like a lifetime later, she was finally able to raise her head and turn on the faucet. Holding her breath, she flushed away the mess she’d made, rinsed out her mouth, and settled on a kitchen chair, her head in her hands.

“I’ll have to get better to die.”

When the world stopped spinning, she snuffled and made her way to the bathroom. “Aspirin. I need more aspirin.”

She flipped on the light. Through gritty eyes, she stared in disbelief at the white towels strewn on the bathroom floor, then at the whiskers and soap scum coating the hand-painted peonies lining her sink. “I take back every wistful thought I ever had about you, Cameron MacLeod.”

Not only did he take up more space in a room than any decent man ought, but was sloppy and he’d become reticent since meeting with the witch. Worse, he went through cola and shampoo like they were water—which he spent far too much time singing in. And she didn’t want to even get started on the thermostats. If he turned them down one more time, she’d run him through with that bloody sword of his should they ever get it back.

Augh!

She kicked the towels out of her way—her head pounding almost too hard for her to breathe, much less allow her to bend over and pick them up—and opened the medicine chest. She cracked open a new bottle of aspirin and took three, reasoning they were small. The last two hadn’t done a thing to relieve the throbbing in her head or her stiff muscles, which ached unmercifully from all her shivering.

A pill caught at the back of her throat. Gagging, she flipped on the faucet and gulped water from her hand. God, she felt like shit. Flu. Had to be. And no small wonder after all the running around in the cold she’d been doing.

I never should have brought him to Salem.

She should have gone by herself, but no, she had to do show and tell. Moreover, had she gone alone, he never would have had an opportunity to kiss her, and she wouldn’t have melted into it, gotten lost in the dark and sweet, wet and wild of it. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

And what on earth had ever possessed her to think their living together—albeit, celibately—would work? He might have the most beautiful male body she’d ever laid eyes on, but that didn’t make for compatibility. He awoke before the birds to tear through the books she’d pulled from the library each day long before any decent person even thought to open their eyes, and then he’d disappear after supper saying he had to get some air and wouldn’t return until two in the morning. What the hell was he doing night after night until that hour? She needed eight hours of sleep. She needed order. She needed her down time after dealing with customers and bills all day. But not Cam. He read, he ate, he puttered, and then paced the city. So needless to say, she didn’t unwind and didn’t get any sleep. She worried, and quite naturally, about what trouble he’d get into next.

God, why had she told him as he sat on that bus regarding the world in miserable, stony silence that he’d have a place with her for as long as he needed it? Until she could get him home?

She huffed. Because she was half in love with loud, sloppy yet incredibly sexy—and in his own way charming—Cam MacLeod, that’s why.

Another chill raced down her spine causing her already-sore muscles to contract and her teeth to chatter. Great, her fever was back. She looked about. Why was she in the bathroom? Oh ya, she needed aspirin.

She opened the medicine cabinet and dumped two pills, then another into her palm. Take three, they’re small.

She shivered again, flipped off the light and stood in her bedroom doorway looking at her big comfy bed. Maybe she should lie down for a minute, just one minute to let the pills take affect. Then she could go back to work. Another shudder wracked her. Ya, just rest for a minute.

Teeth chattering, she jerked back the quilt and climbed into bed. As she curled into a ball facing the window and the frigid night beyond, the glow from the street lights below seared the back of her eyes. She closed them.

Cam, where the hell are you?

Cam cursed under his breath when a drunkard shouted, “Closer, baby” to Claire’s near-naked friend, Tracy Simpson.

Christ’s blood. Would he ever get over his shock of this place Tracy … and now he … worked in? More alarming was discovering half these lasses were married. What kind of man would allow such?

Tracy, dressed in little more than high-heeled silver shoes, knelt and thrust her hips forward in hopes of receiving another tip, as she called the notes strangers pressed between her breasts and into her scant whatever.

Realizing the drunkard stood empty-handed and was about to grab Tracy’s bare arse, Cam stepped forward and grabbed the man by the scruff, hauling him backward. “Ye were warned, sir. No one touches the lasses.”

The drunkard, tottering sideways, swung an impotent fist. “Get your goddamn hands off me!”

Cam tightened his hold and shoved the well-dressed man who’d been tossing whiskey back for the last three hours toward the door. “Out with ye.”

Halfway across the showroom, the drunkard slung another fist, trying to shake Cam off. “Let go of me!”

In response, Cam twisted his wrist, tightening the man’s collar and effectively shutting off his air and any fight the sorry sot might have in him. By the time Cam pushed him through the Purple Pussycat’s front door, the drunkard’s face was purple.

On the stoop, Cam released his grip and gave the man a shove, sending him flailing into the parking lot. As the man gasped and regained his footing in the slush, Cam checked the parking lot for trouble, but found only steam, lavender in the glare of the Purple Pussycat’s sign, rising with the ease of ghosts from the sewer opening ten feet away and a nearby streetlight blinking as it crackled. Somewhere to his right, wheels whined as they spun on wet pavement. At a distance, a siren whooped. He shook his head. God, what a place. The sounds of man and his machines, not nature, were the constant.

The drunkard, wavering, then falling to the slick pavement, cursed as he tore his pants.

“Be gone with ye, and next time keep yer hands to yerself.”

The man flung out an arm as he staggered to his feet, his middle finger extended in the air. “Screw you!”

And the same to ye, ye friggin’ idiot.

Cam stood at the door until the man stumbled away, in no hurry to go back inside—the noise the owner had the bollocks to call music giving him a monumental headache. The place was almost empty and the lasses would soon be done with gyrating on their golden poles and on men’s laps. He shook his head. That one of the lasses was Claire’s friend was beyond his ken. But then, Tracy had been the one to call and tell him about this bouncer position. Although not work he would ever have sought, it was the only labor he apparently qualified for in this world, since he had no driver’s license or guild membership. At least it paid well and for little more than towering over patrons and glowering, so they’d stop annoying the lasses and arguing amongst themselves. On one occasion, he had had to slam a fist into a man’s middle to get his attention, but generally—

The door behind him burst open and raucous music filtered out and with it the Purple Pussycat’s last three patrons, laughing and hooting.

Cam closed the door behind them. “Good eve, gentlemen.”

One yawned. “Same to you, big guy.”

When they drove away, Cam went inside and bolted the door behind him. In the main room, he found all the lasses in one state of undress or another, lined up at the bar with drinks before them, counting their tips. He leaned over the bar and waved to get the barkeep’s attention. “Mike, please, I beg ye, turn off that racket!”

The barkeep laughed, threw a switch and the Purple Pussycat grew blessedly silent.

“Thank ye. My head was about to explode.”

Now if he could just get Tracy to drink up so he could see her home and then get home to Claire. The poor wee lass had been feeling odd for the past two days and was now decidedly peaked. She’d barely touched her supper. More worrisome, she’d been growing more and more terse and that wasna the least like her.

As he lifted the first of the chairs onto a table for the cleaning woman, Tracy spun on her stool to face him. “MacLeod, thanks for taking that guy off me tonight.”

“Ye welcome, lass.”

“It’s payday. Better come get your check before Mike decides to keep it.”

Verra good. He strode to the bar where Mike, the owner and barkeep, held out a piece of paper to him.

Cam looked at it and, scowling, handed the check back. “Ye said fifty a day. Four days at fifty should be two hundred. Nay this. Do it again.”

The man thrust the check back at him. “I had to take out Social Security and taxes, man. Sorry. It’s the law.”

Cam looked at Tracy for confirmation. She shrugged. “It’s true, MacLeod. The man’s not trying to cheat you.”

Hell’s hatches! ’Twas highway robbery.

He snatched the check from Mike’s hand, shoved it into his pocket and reached for another chair. At this rate, he’d never repay his debt to Claire. These people should have themselves another revolution. Ack! So he’d need the bucks after all. As soon as he got home, he’d query Mrs. Grouse and learn all he could about the Franklin Park. For now, he would contemplate transporting and storage.

By the time he lifted the last chair onto the last table, he had the venison storage worked out, and Tracy was dressed and standing by the door.

“Ready?”

“Aye.” Well past ready.

Outside, Tracy slipped her arm through his. “Thanks for walking me home. I really appreciate it. It can be scary out here sometimes.”

“Ye’re welcome.”

“Have you told Claire yet that you’ve found a job? That you’re working here?”

“Nay, and she’d best not learn of it.”

Tracy squeezed his arm as she laughed up at him. “She won’t hear it from me, but why haven’t you told her?”

Because all but pimping women wasna what any God-fearing man worthy of the name would do. “How I earn my bed and board is my concern, not Claire’s.”

“She’s charging you rent?”

“Of course not. But I wish to repay her kindness as quickly as possible.”

And before she learns how he’d managed it. Before he left as suddenly as he’d come, for go home he would.

As a car swished past, spraying gritty slush all over their boots, he said, “Speaking of bed and board, ye need to be giving some serious thought to doing something else. This dancing isna good for you.” For any woman for that matter.

“Why, Cam MacLeod. How nice to know you care.”

“Ye ken my meaning, lass. ’Tis neither safe nor … healthy.”

When they rounded the corner onto Tracy’s street, she slipped, regained her footing and shifted her hold, pressing a breast against his arm. Grinning, she said, “I won’t be dancing at the Pussycat much longer. I haven’t had a chance to tell Claire yet, but I got the role in the summer theater production of Grease that I’d been after. I’ll be in Salisbury by March first, that’s when rehearsals begin.”

“Ye’ll be an actress? On stage?” ’Twas going from the skillet into the fire.

“Isn’t it great? I’m so excited I could just scream.”

He could, too, but for another reason entirely. Dare he ask if she’d be clothed at least?

Grinning up at him, her eyes glowing in the lamplight, she asked, “Would you like to come up for a nightcap, to help me celebrate? I have some Guinness, that dark ale you like.”

“Nay, thank ye. Claire is waiting for me.”

Tracy laughed, her voice ringing sweet and clear in the cold air, a sharp contrast to Claire’s more husky tones. “No, she’s not. She’s sound asleep. Has been for the last four hours at least, if I know my friend.”

Humph. If Tracy were truly a friend she wouldna be batting her lovely blond lashes at him and trying to coax him into her apartment. Not that he and Claire had done anything more than kiss, although he certainly wouldna mind if they did, the more he thought on it. And the longer he stayed, the more he thought.

Aye. Claire was definitely driving him wode as she stumbled about each morning in her furry robe and stocking feet, her hair every which way, smelling of warm sheets and woman, grumbling that he was making too much noise while surreptitiously watching his every move. Aye, he’d seen how she watched him, how her eyes locked onto his arms or chest as he moved about. Devil that he was, he’d occasionally flex or stretch when he had no need just to watch the fine blush rise in her cheeks. Aye, the lass was every bit as aware of him as he was of her, although she’d likely deny it with her dying breath. And given his situation, well she should.

“Can I take your silence for a yes?”

“Nay, I’m afraid not. I’m tired and need get home.”

“Aw, just a wee drop. I promise to be good.”

He could well imagine. He’d caught a glimpse of Tracy’s lap dance earlier in the evening and kenned expertise when he saw it. There wasna a way he’d be dipping his wick into that oil lamp. “I canna.”

“Okay, but I won’t take no for an answer next time.”

Ack.

When they reached her door, she stretched and kissed his cheek. “Good night, MacLeod.”

“Good night, Tracy. Be sure to lock the door behind ye.”

She made her way up the salted steps and once inside, waved. When he heard the lock click, he turned toward home and Claire.

Thirty minutes later, Cam scowled looking into a well-lit Velvet Pumpkin. Now why had she left the lights on? He shrugged and, key in hand, reached for the brass handle only to have the door swing wide with the mere touch of his hand.

Hearing silence, his heart jolted. She’d never leave the door unlocked, nor would she go to sleep without turning on her alarm.

Giving only a cursory look at the door frame, noting that it hadn’t been forced, he strode in, looking for any hint that she’d been harmed, but all appeared to be as it should. “Claire!”

Had she fallen and broken her neck? He ran to the back room. Finding all as he’d left it—the chair he was mending still on the work bench, the tools precisely where he’d left them, Tavish’s possessions still in the process of being inventoried, but no Claire—he took the stairs two and three at a time.

At the top, his heart beat a frantic tattoo against his ribs as he threw open Claire’s apartment door. “Claire!”

Seeing nothing amiss in the parlor or in the kitchen, he strode into her dark bedroom. By the light of the streetlights, he finally saw her in a tumble of bed linen.

“Claire?” Wondering how the hell could she sleep through all his bellowing, noting the room was unusually hot and the air acrid with the smell of sweat and vomit, he reached for her bedside lamp.

“God’s teeth!” Claire, her eyes sunken, lay deathly pale in a wad of damp sheeting, blood oozing from her nose, her hair matted with sweat. He grabbed her arms, alarmed to feel heat pouring off her as he hauled her onto his lap. How long had she been like this?

“Claire.” He patted her cheek in hopes of rousing her but her head only lolled onto his chest. “Claire, wake up! Can ye hear me, lass?”

Not daring to leave her alone, Cam scooped her into his arms and rushed out of the apartment where he spied Mrs. Grouse, her robe in hand, struggling up the first of the steps leading to the third floor. “Mrs. Grouse, ’tis Claire. She’s burning and willna wake.”

“Calm down and come.”

Mrs. Grouse headed back to her apartment and Cam followed. Inside, she pointed to her sofa. “Put her down there.”

He shook his head. He wasna putting Claire down anywhere. He sat, Claire cradled in his arms. “What’s wrong with her?”

Mrs. Grouse clucked repeatedly as she gently touched and prodded Claire. Finally, she straightened, her lower lip caught in her teeth, which did naught for his peace of mind. “I don’t know,” she murmured, “but she needs a doctor.” She picked up her phone. A heartbeat later she said, “210 Dartmouth. My neighbor Claire MacGregor, she’s unconscious. No wounds. No, no diseases that I know of. No, she’s burning with fever and there’s blood coming from her nose. No, this isn’t an overdose, you idiot! She doesn’t take drugs. Yes. Yes. Okay.”

She dropped the telephone and reached for her coat. “The ambulance is on its way, Cameron. We need to take her downstairs.”

He rose. “Where will it take us?”

“Probably to Brigham, that’s the closest hospital.”

Oh God. Hospitals were for the dying. As his throat constricted, his hold on Claire tightened. “Nay. Ye need tell me where I can find a doctor so I can bring him here.”

Mrs. Grouse grabbed her purse. “Cameron, they have doctors at Brigham who’ll take very good care of her. It’s one of the best hospitals in the city. Come.”

“But—”

“Trust me. I’ve been a patient there myself. Now come on. We don’t have time to argue. The ambulance will be here any minute.”

Torn, wanting to trust the woman but not sure that he should, Cam reluctantly followed, Claire in his arms.

At the front of the shop, Mrs. Grouse mumbled what sounded like a curse. “Cam, we need her insurance card.” She pointed to a velvet sofa to her right. “Please lay her down there, then run upstairs and grab her purse. I’d do it but it might take all night. It should be next to the coffee table. All her identification is in it.”

“Why would they need identification? We both ken her.”

“Cam, this is very important. They won’t treat her without her card. I promise I won’t let anyone touch her until you return. Now hurry.”

Muttering every expletive he could lay tongue to, Cam lowered Claire as gently as possible to the sofa only to have her groan when her neck came to rest on the sofa arm. Ack, whatever was wrong with her, please God let her survive.

The unmistakable throbbing whoop of an emergency vehicle brought him to his feet. As it grew louder, he ran for the stairs.