Page 4

“Crap.” Another box. This one secured in yards of bubble wrap.

She tried to lift the box out and failing, picked up the hammer again. When the crate sides fell away, she hacked through the tape and then pulled back the bubble wrap.

“Oh. My. God. Thank you, Tavish MacLean.” She ran a gentle hand over the Celtic carvings imbedded on the lid of the smooth-as-silk, tea-colored oak chest before feeling around the edges looking for a latch or hinge. Finding none, she decided the lid simply sat on the base and lifted, only to almost drop it seeing a large white envelope addressed to her resting on a mound of dark green felt. Muscles straining, she carefully set the heavy lid aside and opened the envelope.

My dearest Claire,

I hope to discuss this delicate matter with you when we meet for our Christmas lunch, but in the event the fates are unkind, I’m placing this letter with my most prized possession.

Dear God, how long had he been ill?

Please forgive me, but I truly believe you’re the only person on whom I can rely, the only one with the mettle to carry on as I have sworn to do, but now no longer can.

This chest and its contents once belonged to Lady Mhairie Stewart, sister-in-law to Laird Malcolm MacLeod of Rubha, who died in December 1744.

My family lore holds that just prior to the MacLeod clan joining the Jacobite uprising, Lady Stewart entrusted all before you to our forebear Thomas MacLean, asking that he never open the chest but protect it with his life until such time as she returned for it or until Scotland was once again secure. Since neither occurred, Thomas brought it with him when he fled to America.

This chest has since crossed the Atlantic three times as it passed from father to son, from uncle to nephew, and each caretaker has pledged to guard it with his life. I, having no children, am entrusting this treasure to you and ask that you, too, protect it with your very life if need be.

The contents are not fully understood and some items—a white lawn shirt, a pelt, and boots—have disintegrated. I have enclosed a translation of the parchment found within the chest. Should you come to understand its meaning, I have no doubt that you’ll know how best to proceed.

I wish you a long and happy life, my dear.

With great affection,

Tavish

“Damn it, Tavish.” A thousand questions careened around inside her head as she wiped the back of her hand under her nose. “Why did you have to up and die before telling me about this?” And what in hell was she now pledged to protect?

She set the letter aside and lifted the felt. Finding a long, kite-shaped bundle wrapped in shrunken wool and tied with a velvet cord, she tugged on the cord and the layers of wool parted.

“Holy shit.”

Scattered on a large mound of dark green plaid sat a fist-sized brass brooch inscribed with a bull’s head, a studded leather belt, a hammered brass cuff, a small square box, an elk-handled short blade and a five-foot-long leather scabbard holding a bejeweled back sword gleaming in the glow of the bare-bulb chandelier above her.

“Oh my God, this is so totally wicked.” She ran a shaking finger along the oiled and supple leather, marveling at its state of preservation. Anxious to see the blade, she slid her hands beneath the sheathed sword and with no small amount of effort lifted it out of the box and onto her lap.

To her surprise the broad blade slid from the scabbard as if it had been used yesterday, its dual edges sharp and gleaming, not a speck of rust anywhere. Phenomenal.

“There isn’t a curator or antique dealer in town that wouldn’t give his or her eyeteeth to hold this.”

Gripping the hilt with both hands, she swung the weighty sword in a figure eight before her. Within seconds her wrists and forearms burned, ached from the weight, and she had to set it back on her lap. “Damn, I’d hate to meet the original owner in a dark alley.”

She tipped the sword toward the light to better read the engraving on the worn hilt. S Ca on M od. Hmm, the lettering appeared to be seventeenth to eighteenth-century English, but that didn’t mean the language necessarily was. Latin, French, and Gael were all in common use in Scotland for centuries. Squinting, she examined the scratches between the legible letters. Damn, she needed her loupe and it sat on her bedroom dresser two stories above. But even without the loupe she’d bet her next commission that the huge cabochon in the center of the Celtic cross decorating the hilt was an amethyst. The smaller, mottled green stones surrounding it were Connemara marble from Ireland. Both gave credence to the provenance Tavish had provided, which indicated its owner—and not likely the Lady Stewart, unless the woman had been an Amazon—had been wealthy. Had it belonged to her husband? Her father?

Claire examined the bull’s head brooch, then picked up the short sword and discovered its six-inch blade was as sharp as that of the back sword. As she turned the four-by-four-inch decorative oak box examining the myriad of hieroglyphs, something rattled inside. Ah ha! A puzzle box. What fun.

She pushed on each surface, hoping to find a pressure point—a lever—but finding none, set it down and picked up the second envelope and scroll. “Maybe these hold the key.”

Mindful of the vellum’s fragility, she took care unrolling the scroll only to be disappointed, finding the message written in Gael.

As she opened the envelope, the clocks out front started chiming. How could it be two in the morning already?

She had to get to bed. The envelope and the trash could wait until morning.

She draped the plaid over her shoulders, slid the back sword into its scabbard and clutching it to her chest, pocketed the rest of her treasures.

Two hours later, Claire kicked off her down comforter and reached for the art deco lamp sitting on her nightstand. There wasn’t a chance in hell she’d get any sleep until she’d solve the mystery of the puzzle box.

The moment she’d gotten upstairs she’d grabbed her loupe and learned the original owner of the back sword had been a knight named Sir Cameron MacLeod. One puzzle down, one more to go.

She reread the translation Tavish’s ancestors had made of the scroll. Several hands had made notes along the edges questioning a word or two. The final consensus read:

Within essence, within soul If nay mater, then mate behold For only thee doth hold the key Tis how he kens To set aright and future be

“Well, that’s helpful. Not.” With the loupe pressed to her right eye, she studied the hieroglyphic symbols and discovered tiny depressions at the center of each. “Hmmm, I wonder …”

She scrambled off the bed, opened the cedar chest that sat at its foot, and hauled out her sewing box.

“Needle, needle, my soul for a fine needle.”

Finally, fine needle and loupe in hand, Claire, her legs folded beneath her, began poking the needle into the tiny holes in numerical sequence starting from left to right and then in degrees of geometric complexity. “Damn, there has to be a sequence, a pattern.”

“Tis how he kens … thinks.” Well, most men thought with their heads and then with their hearts. No, first a guy thought with his penis and then with his head. She hunted but found nothing that even faintly resembled a phallus symbol.

She turned the box again and spied a pair of tiny concentric circles with pinholes at each center that could represent breasts. Hmm. She stuck in the needle. At the outer edge of one side, she found two crescents that faced each other that could—if she held the box just so—loosely resemble a vagina. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. She stuck the needle into the tiny hole at the center and shuddered. Now what?

She turned the box again. Ah, those swirls. They sort of looked like ears and there was lots of space between them, save for that one almost-invisible pin hole.

Claire pushed in the needle, something clicked and one side popped out a quarter inch. “Wahoo!”

How many generations of MacLean men had tried and failed? Ha!

Turning the box so the loose panel faced up, she lifted it and with breath held, peered inside. “Huh?”

She tipped the box and a large acorn fell into her palm. “Odd, feels warm.” The acorn had been inscribed and drilled to allow for a leather cord that was now brittle with age. She grabbed the loop and studied the inscription on the acorn.

Anail. Tha gradhach. Wonder what that means?

As she examined the acorn, the cap came loose and silvery sand fell into her palm. It felt slick, almost silky. Oh well, at least the sword had been worth the loss of a night’s sleep.

She clapped the sand from her hands sending it flying. “Anail. Tha gradhach.” Wonder what it—

CRAAACKKKK!

Claire jerked as her hands flew to her ears and an incandescent glow turned night into day within and without.

“Damn, that was close.”

Augh! Her tree! The sugar maple standing before her front door had been on its last root when she’d bought the townhouse. After three years of fertilizer sticks and water it had finally come back to life last spring.

Car alarms were whoop-whooping as she jumped out of bed, pulled open her plantation shutters and hauled open the window to look outside.

Hanging over the windowsill, she looked down and found her tree whole and lovely, snow decorating its black, leafless branches. She then craned her neck to look at her roof and finding no smoke rising, looked right and left, praying her neighbors’ buildings weren’t on fire. But all appeared normal. There was very little wind and the sky, rather than roiling, was simply a calm, luminous gray. And the snow had slowed to a flurry. Hmm, so what had caused the lightning?

A chill slithered down her spine, making her shudder. She pulled back in and closed the window. As she reached back for the shutters, a large callused hand clamped over her mouth.

A scream rose in her throat as she frantically clawed at the hand. “Eeeee!”

A steely arm encircled her waist, pulling her back against a formidable male body. Hard, hot, naked flesh pressed her from shoulders to quaking naked thighs.

On a wisp of clove and musk, the stranger hissed into her ear, “De’ an t-ainm a tha ort?”

She keened and the hand slid from her mouth and encircled her neck, long fingers catching her under the jaw and lifting.

“Who … who are you? What do you want?” Oh, God, please, please, please, don’t let him hurt me.

“Who are ye and what,” a deep baritone asked, “in bloody hell is going on here, Sassenach?”

Oh God! How had he gotten in? Oh please God!

Screeching, Claire lashed out, her fingers curled like talons in hopes of hitting the man’s eyes. When her fingers caught a long strand of hair, she yanked, heard a grunt, and the arm encircling her waist rose and squeezed the air out of her lungs.

The hand slapped over her mouth again. “Cease! I willna harm ye.”

Her lungs frantically tried to draw air while her heart tried to break through her ribs. Formidable body heat penetrated the thin cotton of her T-shirt. Oh, God, he was going to rape her, why else would he be naked?

Black spots formed before her eyes as she began kicking. Before she could connect, he spun her so that she faced the mirror opposite her bed.

As her gaze locked on his, the arm locking the air out of her lungs eased.

“Look.”

She couldn’t have pulled her gaze away to save her soul. The man holding her life in his massive hands stood a good foot above her, outweighed her by one hundred pounds, and was, in fact, stark naked.

Staring into her eyes, he murmured, “Do I appear a man who needs to rape a woman?”

Unable to speak, she shook her head. No, in fact he looked like a cover model, bronzed and buffed to the extreme. If she’d seen him on the street, she’d have thought him a body builder or gay. Or maybe an actor. His hair was blue-black and wavy, hanging well below his collar bones, his brow broad but furrowed, his eyes an intense blue, his jaw square. No, he definitely didn’t look like he needed to rape women, but then again …

With his gaze still locked on her reflection, he leaned forward so that his lips brushed her ear. A chill raced down her spine as he hissed, “I need answers, woman, and need them now. Ye willna come to harm if ye be truthful and dinna screech. Do ye agree?”

Claire nodded. She’d have agreed that the moon was on fire had he asked it of her. The hand covering her mouth fell away but not so far that he couldn’t grasp her again within a heartbeat.

“Yer name.”

She took a deep shuddering breath. “Claire.”

His head tipped as he studied her reflection, his gaze raking over her body before settling on her breasts, which thanks to her terror were disgustingly perky, her nipples making twin steeples of her nightshirt. “Yer surname.”

Sur … oh. “MacGregor.”

“MacGregor.”

The way her last name cleared the back of his throat before rolling off his tongue left little doubt as to what he thought of it. Augh.

The hand keeping her pressed against his massive chest slipped away and grasped her upper arm. Before she could bolt, he spun and she had no choice but to follow. As his gaze raced from her partially open closet, to the overhead ceiling fan to the lamp and digital clock on her nightstand, a rumbling deep within his chest started and grew louder. Not good.

“What place is this?”

“It’s my apartment.” Idiot.

He gave her arm a jerk, pulling her up onto her toes and still he loomed over her. “That I ken. But what place? Where precisely am I?”

Cringing, she whispered, “In Back Bay.”

Eyes narrowing, he hauled her higher and bared his teeth. “What bay?”

“Dartmouth Street, Boston. Boston, Massachusetts.”

“Aack!” Muttering what sounded like curses, he dragged her to the window and pulled open the shutters to peer outside.

As he examined the street below, Claire leaned as far back as possible. The muscles she’d seen in the reflection as he stood behind her looked twice as large now that she was staring directly at them. As did his chest and—my God, the thighs on the guy! She wouldn’t stand a chance if he decided he wanted her. Worse, from what she could see from the side, he was really hung.

Shuddering, her gaze settled on the back sword and small blade on her bed. If she could just get to one of them, maybe, just maybe …

At her side, her intruder muttered something unintelligible again and suddenly she was free and careening sideways. She tripped over her sewing basket and fell ass over teakettle onto the floor, her butt in the air.

Damn the man!

Scrambling to her feet, she jerked on her night shirt in an effort to cover her ass, only to turn and discover the hunk’s attention had shifted to Tavish’s gifts lying on her bed. He’d already flung the plaid about his hips and over his shoulder and was reaching for the belt.

“Hey! Don’t you dare touch those.”

Furious, she jumped onto the bed and snatched up the closest weapon. The short blade wasn’t much bigger than a paring knife but anything was better than nothing.

The hunk snorted, and with a firm tap of his hand, the scabbard and claymore flipped off the bed, airborne. Then swoosh, his arm thrust out and the sheathed claymore settled over his right shoulder.

Claire gaped. How had he done—

Augh! Who cared.

Fearing he’d lunge at her, ready to dodge, she shifted her weight from side to side, the blade clutched in her right hand. “Give it back!”

He shook his dark mane, the corner of his lip curling up as his gaze shifted from the blade in her hand to her legs. “Nay, ’tis mine.”

“Like hell it is.”

“Humph!” He placed his hands on his hips. “Dinna call my integrity into question, woman. If I say ’tis mine, then rest assured ’tis mine.”

Before she could respond, he reached back, the claymore sang through the air and was suddenly pointing at her chest. “The sgian duhb. Please.”

She shook her head, having no clue what he’d said.

“The blade, lass, hand it over.”

No, no. She backpedaled until her back slammed into the cold brass of her headboard, the short blade wavering before her in a sweating hand. “Leave!”

He huffed and stepped closer, bringing the tip of the gleaming broadsword to within an inch of her heart. Shocked, she yelped and dropped the knife.

Without taking his eyes off her or moving the broad sword, he scooped the knife up. “Thank ye.”

The claymore then disappeared into its scabbard and her intruder was securing the brooch to the plaid on his shoulder. “Have ye a ribbon?”

Why would he need—good God, did he plan to tie her up? She contemplated lying but then feared he’d trash the room and find her jewelry pouch hidden in the lowest drawer. “Top drawer behind you. Take the damn ribbons and go, but leave the swords. There’s no way in hell you can pawn them.” She’d file a police report and then call Shields, the president of the local pawnbrokers association. She’d have everyone in town on the lookout for them.

Keeping her in his peripheral vision, her intruder pulled open the top dresser drawer and ran a careless hand through her collection of so-not-Victoria but definitely Discount-Mart secrets. To her embarrassment, he hauled out her lime green push-up bra and black boyshorts.

Staring at them as they dangled from a long finger, the furrow between his eyebrows deepened. “Humph.”

“Put those back, take the damn ribbons and get out of here!”

To her relief, he dropped her underwear back in the drawer and hauled out a handful of ribbons. Selecting a length of wide, black velvet, he surprised her by tying it not around her as she’d expected but around his bulging left bicep. He then slipped the short blade through the ribbon, securing it to the underside of his arm. “ ’Twill do.”

Oh good. Now please leave before I have a heart attack.

He cocked a finger at her. “Come.”

Oh, no. No, no. Not happening. She shook her head hard, causing beads of sweat to trickle down between her breasts. She wrapped her fingers around the brass spools of her headboard. As she opened her mouth to scream, he smiled, flashing great dimples at her.

“Lass, I mean ye na harm.”

“Then leave. Please—”

Buzzzzzzzzz!

“Good morning, Boston! This is Chopper Dan high above the Fenway with your morning traffic report,” her radio bellowed. “Southbound 1A is a parking lot from the Saugus rotary to the Mystic River Bridge thanks to an oil tanker that jack-knifed—”

“What the bloody hell—” Her intruder’s hand flew to the hilt of the claymore.

Claire yelped, her cry strangling halfway up her fear-dried throat. Before she could slam the snooze button, shutting off the vibrating voice of Boston’s high-flying traffic reporter, a steely arm encircled her waist and she was hauled off the bed and again plastered against the man’s chest. As she gasped for air, the sword’s hilt crashed down, turning her radio into sparking black splinters.

Mouth agape, Claire glanced up. The man holding her was ashen beneath his tan as he snarled something unintelligible at what remained of her radio.

Please, God, please make him go away.

“Ye’re safe now. Come.” Without waiting for a response, he shifted his hold to her wrist and marched into the living room where he came to an abrupt stop. The rumbling started again deep within his chest as his gaze careened around the room, hopping from her modest flat-screen television to her vintage eight-track stereo system to the tall, bow windows she’d draped in vertical, green-and-white striped sheets because she hadn’t the money for more plantation shutters. Finally, he shook his head, sending ebony waves that smelled of male, wood, and musk dancing about his shoulders and across her face.

“The passage out?”

Claire pointed a shaking hand to her right. “There, down two flights.”

He strode to the door as she stumbled behind. She flipped the deadbolt—anything to get him out faster—and he jerked open the door.

Without loosening his grip on her, he peered into the hallway, listened for a moment and grunted in apparent satisfaction. He then hauled her up against his chest again, his hands pressing her to him from hips to chest. A sob shook her as his right hand tipped up her chin.

“My apologies, lass.”

Something in his expression, the softening about his mouth and glimmer in his eyes, made her believe that he might actually mean it.

She nodded, her throat too tight for speech, and he grinned, flashing his extraordinary dimples at her once again, making something in her middle inexplicably waver. Before she could fathom why he’d smiled, his lips locked onto hers. Shocked, she gasped and he took full advantage, delving into her, taking possession. The firmness of his lips quickly softened, rocking her to her core and turned her knees to jelly.

How she came to be leaning into him, how her hands had ended up on his massive chest, she couldn’t say. She did know that she’d never been kissed in such a fashion in her life.

He grinned, gently tapped the tip of her nose with his index finger and crossed the threshold, only to stop and look over his shoulder at her. “Ye’ve splendid hurdies, lass, makes me loath to kiss and run but …”

What the hell were hurdies?

And then he was gone as silently as he’d come.

Her knees and thighs shaking, her fingers pressed to her still tingling lips, Claire stumbled into the hall.

What the hell—?

She leaned over the banister and caught a glimpse of plaid as he flew on silent feet down the stairs. She’d been kissed by a nameless burglar. And enjoyed it! She’d definitely lost her mind.

Oh God, he’d taken Tavish’s treasures! The items she was pledged to protect.

Swearing at her stupidity, she ran into the apartment, grabbed her cell phone off the coffee table and punched in 911.

“911. Where are you located?”

“210—” Claire cleared her throat. “210 Dartmouth, third floor. A man broke in and stole a broad—”

Oh crap! Her front door was still deadbolted and she had the only key. Upstairs.

“Ma’am?” the nasal voice asked, “Your name ?”

Claire snatched the keys off the table and raced for the stairs, praying her intruder had seen the loading dock door. It was only secured by a steel bolt. “Claire MacGregor,” she told the operator.

“Ma’am, are you in danger?”

Panting, Claire hit the second floor landing at a run. “Not now, he’s leaving, but he took the swords and brooch.”

“Swords?”

“Yes! Hurry!”

Claire stumbled into the storage room, saw that the loading dock door was still securely locked and shouted, “Wait!”

The sound of breaking glass reverberated throughout the first floor and was quickly followed by the screams of her security system alarms.

The dispatch officer forgotten, Claire ran into the Velvet Pumpkin.

Her beautiful glass doors were again in shards.

“Shit! Shit, shit, shit!”

Where in hell am I?

Cameron’s head and stomach reeled, much as they had when he’d been a bairn and gone over a burn in a stolen ale cask. He pressed into a shallow doorway and watched in disbelief as a huge horseless coach with glowing lamps and a plow before it ground past on fat, chain-coated wheels.

The houses he’d run past were much like those in Edinburgh, closely packed and multistoried, but he wasna in Edinburgh. Of that he was certain. The signposts and those plastered to shop fronts were in English, though what most said was beyond his ken. As if to drive the point home, the shop across the wide thoroughfare suddenly lit from within and a glowing orange sign blinked to life in the window. Open, it read. The shop to the right touting Copy Central remained in the dark, as did the one on the left.

Not a public house, surely. And how did the signage glow so? Claymore in hand, his heart beating a furious tattoo against his sweating chest, he panted, sending white clouds into the air.

Nothing appeared real, much less familiar. Worse, he recalled naught prior to finding himself standing in Claire MacGregor’s bedchamber.

Catching movement out the corner of his eye, he glanced left. A hunched man dressed in a heavily padded jacket was making crunching progress toward him. Before he came close enough for Cameron to grab and question, the man vaulted the banked snow and crossed the roadway to the open shop and disappeared.

God’s teeth! Where the hell had he left his boots? His horse? He took a deep breath in an effort to steady his galloping heart and caught a whiff of saltwater under the crisp scent of new snow. Ah ha! The sea was close by, but where? Like a wolf on the hunt, he turned his head trying to catch the scent again. Damn. Nothing.

He needed a safe place to think.

Spying a dark cave to the right, he edged closer. From there, he could wait and watch.

Just yards from his goal, a distant keening caught his attention. His steps faltered. A brilliant light suddenly flooded the entrance. Cursing, he backpedaled on frozen feet. The screeching, much akin to a blade on a smithy’s wheel, only louder, grew to an ear-shattering din. Then to his horror, a monstrous metal beast erupted from the hole, its singular lamp high and centered, like the eye of a Cyclops. As he scrambled over the nearest snow bank, one horseless coach after another screamed past on metal wheels, sparks flying.

Christ’s blood! What manner of hell was this?

Heart nearly breaking his ribs, his breath catching, he peered over the mounded snow to watch the snaking coaches come to a hissing stop a short distance ahead, watched the doors swing wide without help, a few faceless figures shift within the lit interior before the doors hissed shut. None too soon, the snakelike coaches began to roll again.

Praise the saints.

As if the fates feared he’d grow complacent, all the lanterns casting blue-white arcs high above the street suddenly went out. He rolled, expecting an army of lamplighters at his back only to find the street deserted.

And Minnie? He could see her beautiful face, her creased cheeks, and prayed she was safe, that whatever had befallen him she had been spared. He started to rise only to duck down as a rolling beast with flashing blue and red lights careened around a distant corner.

A moment later, another horseless coach—this one tall and square with the words The Boston Globe on the side—rolled to a halt directly before him. He held his breath, mindful that the white puffs he emitted into the frigid air could disclose his presence.

A door opened and Cameron tightened his grip on his claymore as a man dressed much like the other jumped out and jogged to the back of the coach, where he lifted a great rolling door with a clatter and reached in. With a grunt, he tossed a gray block onto the snow to Cameron’s right, and then scrambled back inside and drove away.

Cameron waited for the coach to travel a good distance before racing to the block the man had tossed away. Paper!

Prize in hand, he ran the length of the buildings and ducked into a mews. He hunkered down behind a high drift only to notice that his footprints were the only marks on the perfect white blanket before him. Clear as day, they’d lead anyone straight to him, but he hadna time to fash about it.

Teeth chattering, he sliced through the string making two equal lengths, then quickly secured two thick wads of paper around his near-frozen feet. Ack! He’d grown soft in Rubha. Time was he could have run naked through snow and not minded in the least.

He waggled a foot. ’Twould do until he could steal a pair of boots. As he began to rise, he looked down at the bold print on the remaining broad sheets. Embassy Blast Kills Three. Below it—in unbelievable clarity—he found an image of the destruction. In more bold print, he read BIRD FLU DECLINES. Humph. How could birds not fly? SECOND WALK ON MOON RESCHEDULED.

Huh?

He held the page to the light, sure he’d misread. Aye, ’twas what it said. He tossed it aside and reached for the next, which read the same. As he tried to make sense of the fine, oddly phrased print, a brightly lit coach rolled past. A dog barked in the distance and then from above a bright splash of light illuminated the snow before him.

God’s teeth! Those around him were waking. He could ponder the insanity of men on the moon and flightless birds another time. He needed a place to hide, needed a cloak, boots, and food. Once he’d acquired those, he could better reason, for surely there had to be a logical explanation for all he was seeing.

And there was only one who could fulfill his needs.

Claire MacGregor.

Finding his way back to the lass with stormy green eyes and decidedly fine hurdies proved easy enough. Where he’d left no footprints—where he’d run along snow-packed roadways—he watched for familiar sign posts. Ah, there. Dartmouth.

Around the corner, he slowed, finding men standing before her home and next to them a flashing white and black mechanical beast. He ducked into a cellar stairway as one man pointed at the snow, no doubt to his tracks. The other nodded and with a hand on his hip, took off at a trot. Praise the saints, he’d used the roadways more often than not.

The remaining man climbed into his coach. With steam belching from its ass, it rolled past, its chain-coated wheels crunching and clinking.

Cameron glanced back at the house. Claire’s door had been covered with sheeting. Aye, now was the time. Before someone spotted him lurking and summoned the men again.

He straightened, readying to cross the roadway.

WHUUPP WHUUPPP WHUUPPP WHUUPPP.

The sound from above vibrated against his chest and caused the hairs on his arms and neck to rise. Instinctively, he reached for his claymore.

“Merciful mother of Christ!”

A monstrous mechanical dragonfly—its wings whirling sideways like a tipped windmill, its red and white eyes gleaming—suddenly whipped overhead at unimaginable speed. A few stuttering heartbeats later, it disappeared into the dawn, its whuup whuup whupp growing fainter with each breath Cameron managed to draw.

Ack! The size of the beast! But for the grace of God and Saint Bridie he’d be dead.

That’s it. He’d had enough.

Muscles tense, his gut rumbling with fear, he sheathed the claymore with a shaking hand and strode purposely toward Claire’s front door. Anyone who watched through their windows—another oddity, all this glass—would assume him to be a man on a mission. There was naught else to take note of, save for his odd footwear. He hoped.

At her door, he pressed a hand to the opaque bubbles stretched over the frame. Humph! Pliable and far too easy to breach, which he promptly did. He must speak to Claire about installing a stout door as soon as he had his bearings and something warm in his belly.

Inside, the air felt blessedly warm and smelled of flowers and baking. Having focused only on a means of escape when he’d initially run through, he examined the quantity and quality of furniture crowding the room. He gave the multiple candelabras hanging from the ceiling a cursory glance, then shifted his attention to the books, dishes, and glassware crowding every surface. “Humph. Claire MacGregor is apparently a verra wealthy woman.”

Passing a chest, he caught the scent of cinnamon and slowed. Ah, buns, piled nice as ye please on a platter. His stomach rumbled as he snatched one from the pile. He took a bite as he stared at the tree festooned with hundreds of glass balls.

“Acck!”

He spat and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and dropped what remained of the bun on the chest. Good God. Claire MacGregor might have many a talent but cooking wasna one of them. And where might she be?

As if hearing his thoughts, wood clattered and the lady in question yelped, then issued a string of decidedly unladylike curses. Ah, ’twas Claire of the fine hurdies. He’d recognize that snarl anywhere.

Mindful of his backsword and the breadth of his shoulders, he eased sideways through the clutter and made his way toward the back room, where he found Claire, her back to him, dressed in breeches and a woolen tunic, her chestnut curls tied loosely atop her head, tugging on boards.

Seeing she was alone, he leaned against the door frame and folded his arms across his chest, feigning a calmness he dinna feel in the least. “May I help ye with that?”