Page 5

“Augh!” Claire leaped a good foot, her hammer dropping to the floor. Oh, God, not again. “What in hell are you doing back here?”

Her intruder straightened, and she stumbled backward, tripping over the pile of wood at her feet.

“Be at ye ease, lass, I mean ye na harm. Truly. I return in hopes that I might find something warmer to wear.” He waggled a soggy, newspaper-encased foot at her. “Hoped ye might also find it in ye heart to offer me a wee bit of food and then kindly explain where I will find a horse, so I might escape this ungodly place.”

“Go away or I’ll call the police!”

Looking bemused, he relaxed against the door frame again, this time his hands loose at his sides. “Naught is as it should be, mistress. Worse, I dinna ken how I came to be here.” He heaved a sigh. “Or for that matter, where here is.”

Claire groped behind her for something—anything—to use as a weapon. “Are you on medication?”

“Medikay—?” He huffed in apparent exasperation. “Lass, I awoke in yer bedchamber. How I came to be there is beyond my ken. Last I recall, I was preparing for war. We were to leave at dawn. Then … naught.”

“War?” Claire gaped at him. “Oh, you poor thing.”

He was a soldier … one apparently suffering from posttraumatic stress syndrome. Great, just what she needed. “Well, we have to find out where you belong. Do you have any ID on you? Know where you’re stationed?”

His eyes narrowed. “Lass, I dinna ken yer meaning.”

She held up a hand, fearing she’d agitate him further. “Not to worry. We’ll find out. Somehow.”

He was obviously Scot, which meant he’d probably wandered off a British battleship stationed in the naval yard. It shouldn’t be too hard to find. She smiled in hopes of appearing nonthreatening, friendly, in fact. “Do you know your name?”

Obviously affronted, he straightened. “Aye. Sir Cameron MacLeod, third son of John MacLeod, laird of Rubha and the clan MacLeod.”

As the words tripped from his lips, blood drained from Claire’s head. The name on the hilt of the backsword; the one he’d stolen and now wore, had claimed as his and so easily wielded. This wasn’t possible. “Did you say MacLeod? Sir Cameron MacLeod?”

“Aye, I did.”

Dare I ask? “And your mother’s name?”

“Elizabeth MacLeod.”

Ah, good. Not the same. He’d somehow managed to read the name engraved on the sword’s hilt. Although how he’d managed to do so without a magnifying—

“She died birthing me. I was raised by my aunt, Mhairie Stewart.”

“Mhairie …” Black spots began dancing before Claire’s eyes. Blinking, she reached for one of Tavish’s kitchen chairs and dropped onto it. “Mhairie Stewart. Your aunt.”

“Aye.” He took a step toward her. “Are ye all right, lass? Ye appear a wee bit green.”

She held a hand up, warning him to keep his distance. “I’m fine. I just need to think.”

He nodded. “Dinna we all.”

Her hands shaking, wishing with all her heart that Tavish was at her side, she asked, “What day is this?”

The handsome man before her shrugged. “Sunday. Mayhap Monday. I dinna ken for certain.”

Hating to badger someone who was obviously stressed but needing to know, she asked, “And the year?”

His beautiful cobalt eyes narrowed. “The year of our Lord, 1745. Or so it was before all went withershins.”

Oh God, this isn’t happening.

His height impressive, his formidable legs braced and well apart, he glared down at her. “Naught as it should be, lass. Naught!”

Oh, he had that right. Could he be … ? No. If not, then how …

“How did you get into my apartment?” Her security system had been armed. And no way had he come into the shop earlier in the day and simply hidden until she’d closed. She’d spent the entire day in the front of the store, robbing from one account to fill another, trying to balance her books. At six and a half feet, he was far too large for her to have not noticed his arrival.

He threw out his arms. “That, lass, is the verra point I’ve been trying to make. The last I recall I was in Rubha’s great hall. The tables were bowing beneath the weight of the feast before us. Wine and ale flowed as if from a burn. All kenned the feast might be our last for a good many months, mayhap a year. Mayhap, ever. Then … there ye were, half-naked before me and screeching to wake the dead.”

“Augh! Need I remind you that I was the one with a naked stranger twice my size in my room?”

He heaved a sigh, his expression nonplus. “I humbly beg ye pardon, mistress.”

Oh God. If his being here had anything to do with the box she’d opened …

“Mr. MacLeod, it’s the year 2007.”

He blanched. “That canna be.”

“I assure you that it is. And you’re in America. In Boston, to be exact. And this is my home.” Her head pounding, Claire looked at her watch. Almost seven o’clock and she’d yet to get the crating out to the dumpster or shovel the steps.

“Look, I have a lot—hey!” Claire slapped at the hand encircling her wrist like a steel manacle. “You’re hurting me!”

Her intruder pulled her up against his chest, and loomed over her. “Speak the truth.”

“I am. Look at the calendar. In there.”

“Humph!” Muttering under his breath, he hauled her at breakneck speed into the shop, where he brushed up against the bentwood coatrack, sending it toppling to the right, where it crashed into the mahogany cart, sending the silver tea set crashing to the floor.

“Damn it, slow down before you wreck the place!” Panting, she pointed to the left. “Over there, by the large mirror.”

MacLeod came to a halt before her desk. “The calendar.”

“I’m getting it.” She reached down, jerked open the buffet’s top drawer with a shaking hand and pull out her calendar. As she handed it over, she saw on December 24th 12:30 PM, Lunch with Tavish. God. “Look at the top. See? Right there, December 2007. And look.” She hit the power on her computer and it sprang to life, clicking and grinding. When the monitor lit up, she heard MacLeod gasp then curse. “Wait. Just wait.”

She pulled up CNN and turned the monitor so he could see it more clearly. “See, December 2, 2007, right there. Now watch.”

She clicked on the weather link, bringing up the national forecast map. “See right here? This is America, and this,” she moved the cursor to Massachusetts, “is where you are now.”

Ghastly pale, he pointed to the screen. “This cannot be.” Color then flooded his cheeks and the blood vessels at his temples throbbed.

Deep breath, Claire. Stay calm. If he is who you think he is—no, who you fear he is—he’ll likely kill you as look at you.

“What manner of witchcraft is this?”

Oh shit! “Please, try to stay calm and listen. I’m telling you the truth. Tavish MacLean willed me this box with your sword and stuff in it. It came with a scroll and … Never mind. Let me show it to you.”

“Do so.”

She nodded like a bobble-headed doll. “No problem, but please, can you let go of my arm?” Her fingers were numb.

He grunted and released her. “Which way?”

Claire eased out from behind the desk and reluctantly led him back to the storage room. Before the large elaborate box that had once been secured in bubble wrap, she stopped and pointed. “There.”

He squat before the box and ran his hand over the hieroglyphs. As if to himself he mumbled, “I ken this, but how?”

“Do you know what the symbols mean?”

“Aye, they’re celestial symbols, verra auld.” He rocked back on his haunches. “This was given to ye by a MacLean?”

“Yes. There’s more. Another box and a scroll written in Gael. They’re upstairs.”

He rose and held out a massive paw. “After ye.”

“I’ll bring them down—”

He palmed the short blade as his gaze shifted around the room. “Nay, ye lead the way and I shall follow.”

And follow he did. So close on her heels she could feel the heat emanating from him, caught the scent of him again.

As they stepped onto the second-floor landing, her tenant’s door suddenly opened. Before Claire could cry out in warning, she found herself being hauled backward and up against her intruder’s side.

“Claire, I just baked—Oh my, who’s this?”

Her white hair still encased in pink foam rollers, a crumb cake in her hands, Mrs. Grouse eyed the Highlander approvingly, then frowned, looking at Claire. “Should I call the police, dear?”

“No! No, no, that won’t be necessary, Mrs. Grouse.”

The last thing she needed was the police. The Highlander, already agitated and confused, would likely hold her hostage. As much to free herself as to reassure Mrs. Grouse that all was well, Claire elbowed the Highlander in the ribs. His grasp on her waist loosened, and she jerked away only to stumble. When his hand shot out to steady her, she knocked it away. “Mrs. Grouse, this is Cameron MacLeod, a … friend, who’ll be leaving. Soon.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Grouse’s bright blue gaze wandered over the Highlander again before settling on his feet. “Have you no boots, young man?”

MacLeod eyed Claire in accusing fashion. “Nay, mistress. ’Twould appear I’ve lost them.”

“Oh. That will never do. Wait right there.” Before Claire could protest, her renter shoved the cake into MacLeod’s hands and disappeared.

Glaring up at him, Claire hissed, “Don’t even think about harming her. She has nothing to do with this.”

MacLeod grunted and poked a finger into the cake as one might poke a carcass, then sniffed it. “I hadnae intention of doing so.”

Right. “Like you had no intention of hurting me.”

She pushed up a sleeve and displayed the bruise he’d inflicted on her right wrist just hours ago. “I’m serious. I’ll—”

“Here you go, young man.” Mrs. Grouse stood in the doorway holding out a pair of glossy black galoshes decorated with a line of equally glossy metal buckles, white socks poking out of the tops. “They should fit. My Henry had the feet and hands of a man twice his size.” She winked at Claire. “Was one of the reasons I married him, if you get my drift.”

“Ah.” Never having thought to imagine the recently departed Mr. Grouse’s genitals but doing so now, Claire shuddered, grabbed the boots then took hold of the wide belt encircling the Highlander’s waist and tugged. “Thanks for the boots and cake, Mrs. Grouse. You’re the best.”

To her annoyance, MacLeod remained rooted in place. “Mistress, my humble thanks.”

Mrs. Grouse, her hands over her heart, beamed up at him. “Such a nice young man.”

Not.

Claire tugged on his belt again in hopes of moving him toward the stairs. “We really need to go.”

Instead of taking the hint, Cameron took one of Mrs. Grouse’s hands in his and kissed her knuckles as he bowed. “Good day to ye, mistress. And my thanks again.”

Claire pointed up the stairs and growled, “Now, MacLeod.”

Halfway up the last flight, he said, “Lovely auld lass, but the worms do naught for her countenance.”

Worms? Oh. “They’re curlers.”

“Curlers. Humph. I dinna like them.”

“No one said you were supposed to.”

Claire heaved a sigh the moment they entered her apartment. Cameron did as well, then bolted the door, grabbed Claire by the arm and ignoring her squawk of outrage, strode to the window and peered out. Finding the street blessedly empty, he let go of her arm and then turned his attention to the delicious-smelling cake in his hand. He broke off a hunk and popped it in his mouth. Ah, heaven. He broke off another piece. “The box and scroll, if you please.”

The lass dropped the odd boots the auld woman had so graciously given him onto a chair and pointed with a shaking hand to her bedchamber. “In there.”

He put down the cake and waved her ahead of him, anxious to get to the bottom of this insanity and get back to Rubha.

In her bedchamber, Claire lined the objects she’d spoken of across her bed covering.

He picked up the box. Naught about it looked familiar but something rattled within. He tried to open it, and failing, put it down and picked up the scroll. As it unrolled, he recognized Minnie’s hand, a tight script done in a backward slant. Only she made the letter B just so. More unsettling, the verse held no meaning for him.

“Here’s Tavish’s letter. It may help.”

He looked up to find Claire holding out a bright white piece of paper. Finding only her name on the front, he flipped it over and saw another piece of paper cleverly secured within the outer sheet. He pulled the second out. As he read, blood thudded in his ears and with the thudding came images of Tall Thomas’s seaside croft, of candles and fire, of drinking wine and then … naught.

“Damn the woman!”

At his side, Claire MacGregor jumped a foot.

His mother had lulled him with a bloody lie! Had told him she was merely casting a spell of protection. How could she have done this to him? And why?

He tossed the missive onto the bed and glared at Claire. “Send me back.”

How much time had he lost? Four centuries couldna have possibly passed. More important, had the battles already begun? Had the clan joined the Stuarts?

Claire scampered backward, her hands before her. “I don’t know how to send you back. I just opened the box and then … there you were.”

Ha! A witch, then. Two of a kind, his Minnie and this Claire. When he found his way home, Mhairie Elizabeth Stewart would rue the day she ever drew breath.

“Woman, undo that which ye’ve done!”

“But I didn’t do anything … other than open the box.” The lass, her eyes bright with unshed tears, began edging toward the doorway, escape doubtless on her mind.

He sidestepped, blocking her path. Placing his hands on his hips, he puffed out his chest and glowered, giving her the look that had loosened many a strong man’s bowels and tongue.

He waited. And waited.

Ack. He leaned over her, bringing his nose close to hers and caught the scent of vanilla and lavender. It suited her, petite as she was, like purple on heather, and did naught to mask the scent of frightened woman about her.

“Lass, do it.”

She tottered backward, tripped, and landed with a thump on a wooden chest. She took a shuddering breath. “Trust me, I would if I could, just to be rid of you, but I don’t … know … how.”

He picked up the small box and dropped it into her lap. “Open it again.”

“I need a pin to do it.”

He backed a step, and she reached for the wicker basket she’d stumbled over. After removing a needle, the thinnest he’d ever seen, she turned the box in her hands, poking here and there, in an order apparently known only to her if Tavish MacLean’s missive was to be believed.

One side popped up and he snatched it from her hands.

With breath caught, his muscles taught, braced and ready for whatever might happen, he pulled the raised side.

To his raging disappointment, naught changed save for his having an acorn in his hand.

Christ’s blood. And he kenned this acorn. Minnie. She’d placed this about his neck. Aye, only hours before summoning him to Tall Thomas’s croft. But there hadna been words inscribed on the acorn then. Only a few small spirals.

He read the inscription aloud.

From the chest, Claire MacGregor asked, “What does it mean?”

“Breathe, my heart.”

Claire sniffed. “Well, you certainly did.”

He looked at her, the fine hairs on his arms rising. “Ye said these words?”

Claire nodded, her finely arched brows tenting above her aquiline nose. “I’m sorry.”

Aye. And would be more so if she didna reverse this spell. But how to convince her to do so without incapacitating her? Ah, his fief for a rack. The mere sight of one would surely turn her tongue loose and have her do his bidding.

“Mister, I’ve got a bear of a headache. I need food and more important, I need coffee. Would you mind? Eating, I mean, before we worry any more about getting you back to where you belong? Wherever the hell that might be.”

Not waiting for an answer, the witch sidled past him, muttering, “I could skin you, Tavish MacLean. I swear to God I could.”

Claire pulled eggs, coffee, and bacon from the refrigerator and utensils from drawers, keeping a watchful eye on the Highlander while he sliced through the string securing the newspaper to his feet.

God, he was huge, even kneeling.

His stomach suddenly rumbled, the sound making him seem more human. Claire pointed to a white container. “Throw the papers in there, then take a seat while I make something to eat.”

“The cake will do.”

“I seriously doubt it.”

Having been responsible for her family’s supper since her early teens, she slung bowls and skillets about with practiced ease while he stood, tall and silent, tracking her every move. Did he honestly think she’d be stupid enough to lunge at him with a paring knife? He’d have it out of her hand and her wrist broken in a heartbeat.

It took several minutes of her ignoring him, but finally he rolled his shoulders and sat where she’d indicated.

Feeling more relaxed now that he was and soothed by mundane routine, she turned on the stove. When the perfect blue flame licked the bottom of the skillet, she heard him gasp, looked over her shoulder and found him scowling.

“It’s a gas stove. Turn a knob and instant fire. Everyone has one. It’s nothing special.”

“Humph.”

The thick, apple-smoked bacon she purchased in a Faneuil Hall Marketplace began sputtering, filling the room with its mouthwatering scent. “How do you like your eggs?”

“Cooked.”

She heaved a sigh. “Scrambled it is.”

A few minutes later, she placed their breakfast on the table, handed him some cutlery and took the seat opposite him. “Dig in.”

She swallowed a second mouthful and looked up, surprised to see Cameron watching her, his hands still in his lap. “You don’t like bacon and eggs?”

“Aye, I do.” He glanced down, murmured something in Gael, picked up his fork, examined it front and back, then began to eat in a quick and efficient manner. Hmm, table manners. A moment later, he murmured, “ ’Tis verra good.”

“Thank you. You were worried that I’d poison you, huh?”

He fought a grin. “Never entered my thoughts.”

“Ya.” She grinned for the first time in what felt like days.

Having come to a truce of sorts, they ate in companionable silence.

When their plates were empty, she rose, refilled their mugs with coffee and resumed her seat and stared at him.

The man had to have the most attractive eyes she’d ever seen. Framed by thick, sweeping lashes, they were the color of Flow Blue china. Deep blue with flecks of silvery white. And that square jaw and chin … movie idol material. The muscles of his shoulders and arms rolled as he brought the coffee to his finely crafted lips and something warm flashed in her middle. Yup, this man sitting across from her was definitely the stuff of dreams.

Without looking up from his plate, he said, “Ye look at me as if ye’ve never seen a man before, lass.”

“That’s because I’ve never seen a man quite like you before.”

“Humph. Highlanders are scarce in these parts?”

“Yes.” Of your kind, at any rate.

He appeared to give that some thought, then asked, “Where is yer husband?”

She straightened, his comment tossing ice water on her daydreaming with the reminder that she lived alone and was vulnerable.

Dare she lie? Say that her dear hubby was traveling and would return today? The Highlander had likely noted there wasn’t a hint of a man within her apartment—no clothing, no shaving gear. “I don’t have one.”

“My sympathies on yer loss, mistress.”

“Please call me Claire, and thank you, but I’ve never been married.”

He glanced at her hands and the modest pearl ring she wore, a sweet-sixteen birthday gift from her mother. “Engaged then?”

She shook her head. “No. I’ve never been engaged either.”

“Humph. ’Tis because ye’re a witch?”

Her laugh was more of a bark. “No, I’m not a witch, although a few of my customers might tell you otherwise when I won’t negotiate my prices.”

His eyes narrowed as he tipped his head to study her, his gaze finally settling on her breasts. “So when do ye expect yer patron to call?”

“My patron?” Oh good Lord! He thought she was a kept woman. “I’m not a mistress. I’m an antique dealer. Downstairs … that’s my shop. The Velvet Pumpkin. I buy and sell furniture, china, and the like.” She shook her head.

Looking aghast, he grumbled, “I humbly beg yer pardon. I’ve inadvertently insulted ye, lass, but given yer wealth and bonnie green eyes and … other parts, I’d just assumed …”

She had bonnie green eyes and other parts? Who knew? “There’s no need to apologize.” Truth to tell, she’d been flattered that he thought her attractive enough to be maintained. Tracy, ya. Claire MacGregor, never.

Wanting to know more about him, she said, “Tell me about your home, where you once lived.”

“Live, lass.” He looked toward the window. “It had snowed there during the night as well, but gently. The parapets are crowned with only a hand’s width of white; the scent of peat smoke and sea hangs in the air. The cattle, down from the high pasture and growing round in the fold, can be heard for miles at gloaming when the winds turned seaward.”

When he grew silent, Claire, longing to hear his deep-timbered burr again, prodded, “And your family?”

“Da is a chieftain, laird of our clan and of Rubha. I’ve two half-brothers. Robbie, the eldest, is our steward and John,” he grinned, flashing great dimples at her, “is the wit. Both are married and have bairns.”

“You miss them.”

“Aye, I do, but more I fash over them.” He was silent for another moment, then asked, “The map below … is it true?”

Map? Oh, the one she’d showed him on the computer. “Yes.”

“I’ve seen maps of the colonies before, kenned the West Indies isles as well, but hadna realized this place was so vast.” After a moment he asked, “And your king? Is he of the Stuart line?”

Oh crap. Here goes our peaceful interlude. Now he’ll ask about Scotland and grow agitated again.

“We no longer have kings. Haven’t had one since the Revolutionary War in 1776 when we defeated the British.”

“Truly?” He grinned, the news apparently pleasing him.

“Truly. We’re a democratic republic with elected presidents. One citizen, one vote. The candidate with the greatest number of votes wins.” There was no point in going into the electoral college.

“As in Roman times. Interesting. So how did we fare in our uprising? Did Prince Charles become king?”

Oh God, dare she tell him? If she couldn’t return him to his own place and time, he’d learn the truth anyway. “I’m sorry, but the Jacobite uprising was … a monumental failure and was the last of its kind. The Scots have been ruled, have been English citizens for centuries.”

He rose abruptly, the chair crashing behind him, his face a livid red, his fists balled as he loomed over her. “Nay!”