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Cameron shook his head. “Nay, I shall walk.”

No way would he be getting into the mechanical beast Claire had summoned with a wave of her hand and a shriek of a whistle.

From inside the yellow machine, Claire growled, “Cameron, it’s been a long day. Get in.”

“Nay.” The last time he’d found himself in such a contraption, he’d been shackled, beaten, and then finger-buggered. He’d tolerated quite enough abuse for one day, thank ye verra much!

“Cameron, we’re not walking home in the dark. Besides, it’s getting colder and you’re not dressed for it.”

What dark? There were brilliant lights of every imaginable color glowing in every direction. And cold had never proved a problem for him. “You go on. I can find my way.”

Claire huffed. “Did I or did I not just bail you out of jail?”

“Aye, ye did, and grateful I am.” And he’d pay her back … somehow. Christ’s blood, they’d charged her a king’s ransom.

“To get you out, I swore that you’d follow the letter of the law until your court date. And by God I take my responsibilities seriously—particularly when I have $5,000 at stake, so please, pretty please, get in the damn taxi.”

“But I havena intention of breaking any of yer laws.”

“Ya, just like you had no intentions of breaking the law this afternoon.”

He bristled—naught that had happened was in any way his fault—and she held up a hand. “Look, Cameron, I don’t blame you. You didn’t know the rules, so it’s completely understandable that you got into trouble. If you come home with me now, I promise to teach you all you’ll need to know.”

All? “Are ye a woman of yer word, lass?”

“Yes … I promise.”

He huffed and examined the latch on the door. After giving it a jiggle and satisfying himself that it would open from within, he climbed into the tight compartment.

Claire said to the driver, “Macy’s, please.”

With one knee pressed against the seat before him and the other cocked and pressed against Claire’s slender thigh, he asked, “Are all coaches called taxis?”

She sighed as they started to roll down the snow-packed carriageway. “Only the yellow ones. See that line of black and white vehicles with the red and blue lights on top over there? Those are called squad cars. They belong to the police and are to be avoided at all costs.”

“Aye.” And well he kenned it. They didna have latches on the inside so one might escape.

“The rest,” she said, “like that red one coming toward us, are privately owned. We just call them cars.”

“Cars. Do ye ken how to maneuver such?” He had to learn if he was trapped in this place for any length of time.

“Yes, I have a license to drive, but can’t afford to own one. I use the MTA—our mass transportation system—or taxis.”

Ack, this place was a confusion.

As they turned left onto a main thoroughfare, his breath caught gazing up at dozens of brightly lit buildings that he’d seen only from afar, all so high and closely packed they appeared to be mountains.

At his side, Claire murmured, “We call them skyscrapers. This is the financial district. Most of these buildings house businesses that deal with the stock exchange, insurance, or banking.”

Ah, they had such business in Edinburgh. “Most impressive.” How men built so high, however, was beyond kenning.

“We’re coming up on the retail—ah, market—district.”

Staring at the brightly lit, expansive windows, he shook his head in wonder, never having imagined anything so fanciful. Their driver suddenly swore and Cameron shifted his attention to their driver. Steering this machine certainly appeared easy enough. He leaned forward and saw that the driver pushed pedals much like those on a loom. Humph. Right pedal, go. Left pedal, brake, much like a hand brake on a wagon. Verra good. He could do this should the need arise.

As they passed yet another bearded man dressed in brilliant red ringing a bell, he murmured, “Ye seem to have an inordinate number of bishops about.”

Claire’s brow furrowed and she leaned toward him to look out the window. As her hair brushed his chin, he again caught the scent of lavender.

“Oh, those aren’t bishops. They’re volunteers dressed as Santa Claus—St. Nicholas. They work for the Salvation Army. See that bucket? People put money in it as they pass to help feed and house the homeless.”

“Ah, ’tis an interesting method for collecting alms.”

But an odd appearing saint to be sure. “Do ye pay taxes in the same fashion?” ’Twould be a far fairer system than the dictated—and often crippling—tithing his people endured.

Grinning, she straightened, taking her warmth and delicious scent with her. “No. I wish we did.”

They came to a stop and Claire passed several green paper notes to the driver. “We get out here.”

He lifted the latch, happy to unfold and stand on firm ground even if it be covered in slush, and offered Claire his hand. “My lady.”

Looking somewhat surprised, she took it. “Thank you.”

“Humph.” He should be thanking her. And paying their fare.

She led him past two doorways and stopped at the third. Anxious to have a word in private with her, he placed a hand at the small of her back and guided her into the shop’s alcove, out of the wind and away from the harried patrons going in and out. “Mistress, a word if ye please before we go in.”

“Yes?”

God, he hated swallowing his pride, but it needed doing for if it were not for her …

“I didna ask the authorities to summon ye.” He’d have rotted in that hell before stooping so low. “They did so of their own accord. But I do thank ye most humbly for coming and I promise to repay my outrageous ransom as soon as I’m able.” Ack, he still couldna believe the amount the bloody buggering cattle shits had charged her for his release. Ye’d have thought he was blood royal.

She studied him for a moment, her head cocked to the side. “Really?”

“Aye, I most certainly will.”

“All right, and given what we’re going through I do wish you’d call me Claire instead of mistress.”

She smiled then, the light in her eyes reflecting a compassion he didna deserve, but found warming none the less. More disturbing was realizing she was far too trusting and na?ve for her own good. “Aye, but on the condition ye call me Cam.”

“Cam it is. But we can talk more later. Right now we need to get you some clothes before you’re arrested for indecent exposure.”

Inside Macy’s, Claire felt like a fox with a turkey stuck in its teeth as she hauled MacLeod … er, Cam—that would take a while to get used to—through the crowded racks, while other shoppers stopped to gawk at them. Accustomed to going unnoticed, the attention was unsettling and she tried to quicken her pace. MacLeod—Cam, on the other hand, apparently unmindful of the stares he was generating, slowed to touch or gawk at everything they passed. Finally, she got to the wall of jeans. “You don’t happen to know what size your waist is, do you?”

“Large?”

She rolled her eyes, then looked about. “Why is it you can never find a sales guy when you need one?”

She started rifling through the stacks. Thirty-three inseam? No, better go with the longest. Thirty-seven inches. Now for the waist. Finding a pair she thought might fit, she held them out. “These might work. What do you think?”

When she got no response she turned and found she’d been talking to air. “Cam? Cam!”

Where the hell had he gone?

She took off at a jog down the nearest aisle, her head swiveling like an oscillating fan on speed.

I’m gonna kill him if he’s taken off on me. I swear to God I will!

“MacLeod!” Seeing a polished salesman fussing with the merchandise behind the tie counter, she shouted, “Have you see a tall guy in a kilt go by?”

“A striking man with long hair?”

“Ya.” How many guys in plaid were there running around the store?

He grinned and pointed to his right. Claire immediately changed course. A moment later she came to a screeching halt behind a buzzing crowd standing at the foot of the escalators.

“Who do you think he is?” a woman asked.

Another grinned. “I don’t know, but he can put those galoshes under my bed any day.”

Muttering “Excuse me,” Claire elbowed her way to the front and found Cam MacLeod loping up the escalator stairs, taking them three at a time.

What the hell was he doing?

When he hit the top, she shouted, “MacLeod!”

He turned and broke into a great grin, his fantastic dimples evident as he caught sight of her. “Claire!”

“Will you please get down here?”

“ ’Twill be right there.” To her horror he leaped, his flying kilt giving every woman at the bottom an eyeful, caught the handrail on a hip and slid at lightning speed toward her.

As his feet hit the floor, he laughed and several people clapped. When he made a quick bow, the woman at her side heaved what could only be described as a wistful, do-me-now groan.

Good God, the man will be the death of me.

Grinning, he made his way toward her, his chest puffed, his arms held out like some conquering hero. “Have ye tried them, lass? They’re bloody fantastic. Go all the way to the top.”

Grinding her teeth, Claire latched onto his arm and hauled him back toward the dressing room. “Come on. We have to get you clothes before the store closes.”

She snatched several sweaters from a rack and picked up the jeans she’d thrown on the display table when she’d realized he’d disappeared. “Here, take these and go in there and try them on.”

Still grinning, he clucked her under the chin. “As ye lust.”

Fighting a grin—he did look like a kid in his first candy store—she rolled her eyes. “Just do it.”

Five minutes later he bellowed, “Claire!”

“What?”

“The trews dinna fit.”

She stuck her head in the dressing room doorway. “What doesn’t fit?”

“The bloody breeches!”

A deep voice behind her asked, “May I help you?”

Claire jerked around and found the impeccably dressed salesman who’d been straightening the tie display. “Yes. Would you mind going in there and finding out what he’s complaining about?”

“I’d be delighted to.”

“Thank you.”

A moment later he heard Cam curse in three languages, then the salesman came out. Grinning, a tape measure strung around his neck, he told her, “The gentleman needs a relaxed fit. Those massive thighs, you know. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Oh … thank you.” Hell, what did she know about men’s fashion?

The salesman returned, his arms loaded with what appeared to be half the garments in the men’s department, and her heart sank. Picturing the damage Levi and Lauren were about to do to her credit card, she remained mute as the salesman waggled a package of black briefs at her, winked, then disappeared into the dressing room. A minute later he walked out. “I’ll be at the cash register when you’re ready to check out.”

I bet you will. “Thank you.”

“The pleasure was mine. It’s not often I get to see that much man in the buff.”

Augh, no wonder MacLeod was cursing.

She didn’t have long to wait before Cam walked out, scowling and dressed in his plaid, a few garments draped over his arm. “These shall do.”

“You all right?”

He nodded. “Ye live in a strange place, Claire. Verra strange.”

Not wanting to know, she said, “Let’s find you some shoes.”

The task proved easier than she expected. He wore a size thirteen and liked sneakers. But when he tried to put them into the galoshes, they just wouldn’t go. She picked one up and looked inside. “No wonder. They’re two sizes too small.”

He grimaced as he looked at his feet. “That I did ken.”

“Right.” She forced a smile as she asked their hovering salesman, “May we see some boots?”

Outside, a package dangling from each wrist, Claire MacGregor pointed to her right. “The tall men’s shop is down there. They should have a coat that fits you.”

“Claire, I dinna need a coat. ’Tis not so cold and you’ve spent enough of yer coins already.”

Dodging other shoppers, Claire yelled over the strains of “What Child Is This” coming from where he didna ken, “Trust me, you’ll need one.”

Cam grunted, his attention drawn to a shop window with more glossy mechanical devices than he’d seen in his lifetime. “Claire, is this—” he pointed to the shiny silver and black tube on a stand, “truly a telescope?” His father had one but this was like nothing he’d ever seen before.

She peered at the item he pointed to. “Yes, it’s a high-powered one you can hook up to your computer.”

He pointed to the odd chair. “And that?”

“It’s a vibrating massage chair. This shop—Sharper Image—specializes in all sorts of things men want but don’t need. Come on.”

A moment later, he came to a stunned halt before a gaily decorated window filled with beautiful mannequins with huge white wings. “Claire!”

Several yards ahead of him, she looked back and then to the window where he, his jaw slack, pointed to the skimpy bits of scarlet lace strategically draped on the mannequins.

“What manner of shop is this?”

One corner of her lush lips quirked up. “The shop’s called Victoria’s Secret, and the garments are lingerie. What women with great bodies and lots of money wear under their clothes to entice the men in their lives. Now come on.”

Hmm. He eyed Claire as she strode ahead of him, picturing her lovely hurdies in red. Aye, ’twould be a delight to see.

His grin vanished when his attention shifted to the two men with black hair and pierced countenances, who eyed him in much the same fashion as he eyed them. Was their sickly pallor and gaunt state due to a lack of nourishment? Or disease?

As they drew abreast, Cam slipped an arm about Claire and eased her closer to the building. The shorter of the two men hissed and the man sporting a steel loop through his nose like a prize bull laughed, displaying the longest eyeteeth Cam had ever seen in his life. Cursing his lack of a weapon, Cam growled loud enough for both to hear.

At his side, Claire looked up. “Did you say something?”

Cam glanced over his shoulder at the retreating pair. “Nay.”

“Oh. It’s closed.”

They’d stopped before another shop, this one with a dark interior. Verra good. She’d spent far too much already, he was famished and his head ached. “May we go home now?”

“I suppose.”

They walked to the corner where Claire waved and another taxi came to a stop.

As they rolled away, Cam calculated the amount he now owed. After adding another twenty pounds for the glass door he’d broken, he decided he’d be hard pressed to repay Claire in this or any other lifetime. A depressing thought if ever there was one.

Worse, he’d yet to consider the cost of hiring a barrister.

“That’s the Boston Common.” Claire pointed to a wooded area decorated by too many white lights to count. “Isn’t it lovely?”

“Aye.” Ahead and to his right sat a large, lit crèche with statuary depicting Christ’s birth. ’Twas odd to see such outside but good to ken that people here believed.

“Oh, look, people are skating. Once, when I was very young, my father rented one of those paddle boats over there.” She pointed to a line of docked boats shaped and painted to look like giant swans. “We paddled all over this lake.” She sighed. “I pretended we lived up there,” she pointed toward a large gold domed building at the far end of the park, “on Beacon Hill.”

Assuming her president lived beneath the gold dome, he said, “Where did ye live?”

“In a poorer part of the city, in a third-story flat—apartment—with a sagging back porch you didn’t dare step out onto for fear of it crashing to the ground. Worse, the building backed up to the MTA tracks.” She grinned. “Every thirty minutes the MTA would scream past, rattling the doors and windows and Mom would lunge for whatever glassware might be sitting on the table.”

Falling porches and empty-ays. What a strange world for a bairn to grow up in. “And where are yer parents now?”

She looked away. “Mom died a while back and my father … let’s just say the less I see of him, the better.”

Humph. ’Twas often the case in his world as well. He’d been one of the fortunate. “Have ye brothers or sisters?”

“No.” She tapped the glass. “That’s the library.”

Cam looked right and found an impressive building of gray stone fronted by multiple wide steps leading to huge columns. “Whom does one query to gain entrance?”

“No one. It’s free and open to the public.”

Would wonders never cease?

A wee bit later, a long impressive building of light stone with huge banners hanging before it came into view. “And that building?”

“That’s the Museum of Fine Arts. They have a very nice collection of Impression—”

“Asshole!” Their driver shouted another obscenity as they jolted forward, their view out the forward window obscured by a huge yellow coach with flashing red lights that hadna been there a breath before.

Instinctively, Cam braced for impact, pulling Claire into his side. They spun in dizzying fashion for several heartbeats, then slammed front first into a head-high mound of snow.

The driver, pale as a ghost, shouted through the glass partition, “Are you folks all right?”

Cam pushed the hair out of Claire’s eyes. “Are ye injured, lass?”

“No, I’m fine.”

Cam flung open the door and carefully pulled Claire out to better examine her in the light. Once satisfied she’d told the truth, he asked, “Was that an empty-ay that jumped before us?”

“A bus.”

Humph! It was all too much for a man to fathom on an empty stomach. He strode toward their coachman, a skinny man of perhaps twenty years, who now stood shivering with one hand shoved in a pocket, the other pointing to the front of their vehicle, most of which was buried in snow. “Look at that wheel. I’m going to have to call for a goddamn tow.”

Cam ran a hand over the twisted metal above the wheel, then tapped it. ’Twas far too thin to be racing about at such speeds. “We need push the taxi free of the snow so we can better look at the wheel. Mayhap we can free it.”