Page 9

The man grunted, reached into the taxi, pushed a lever, and directed Cam take hold of the door. “On the count of three. One. Two. Three!”

Cam heaved and the taxi rolled back smartly, apparently taking the driver by surprise. He fell.

“Shit, man.” After a bit of slipping and sliding, the driver finally made it to his feet and came to Cam’s side where they crouched before the crumpled metal. “I’ll get the tire iron.”

Claire, who’d been eyeing them, asked, “Is the axle broken?”

Cam shook his head. “Not that I can see.” There were more bloody parts beneath their taxi than could be found in a king’s clock. “I believe ’tis just this piece of metal,” he rapped on the offending plate, “keeping the wheel at an odd angle.” Which shouldn’t prove a problem. He’d straightened out thicker, more crumpled armor many a time.

Their driver returned with a short steel shaft, jammed it into a wee space before the wheel and pulled. When the twisted metal remained as it was, he threw the rod to the ground. “Damn it. I guess I’m gonna be docked for damage and a tow.”

Ack, the man was totally incompetent. “Go help the lady with her packages, will ye?” Cam picked up the rod and eased it under a crumpled edge, pulled, moved the rod, pulled again, and the wheel was free. Straightening, he said, “ ’Tis done.”

“You’re kidding.” The driver made his way back to Cam. As he bent to examine the repair, Cam tucked the steel bar into his breachen feile.

“Wow, man, you just saved me fifty bucks.”

Ah, stags were also currency—he’d seen Claire pay with only cards and bank notes. At least now he kenned why there were so many images of deer in shop windows.

Now once again armed, albeit poorly, Cam grinned. “Ye’re most welcome. Consider it fair exchange for the fare.”

“Ya, sure.” The man straightened and held out his hand. “I’m Eddy, by the way.”

“MacLeod.” Cam shook Eddy’s hand and found it as smooth as a lass’s. Humph! No wonder he’d needed assistance.

Cam looked about and recognizing a street sign—Huntington Ave—turned to Claire only to find her staring at him, her arms loaded with packages, her mouth agape. “We’re close to home, aye?”

Her eyes narrowed as her gaze shifted to where he’d secreted the steel rod. “Yes, but—”

“Grand.” He took the packages from her and threaded his free arm through hers and started walking.

“But you can’t take—”

Ack, in typical female fashion she was about to rail over his wee bit of prudent reiving. Silly lass. He lengthened his stride pulling her along. “Claire, honey, the nice man said we’re even, so come along.”

Claire shoved her key into the lock of her newly glazed front door. “I still can’t believe you stole that man’s tire iron!”

She’d just bailed him out of jail and here he was committing another felony. Well, maybe not a felony …

“Claire, dinna fash. I’ve promised to return it, have I not?”

“Augh!” The sooner she called Mr. Brindle the better. Totally exasperated, she strode to her security alarm. “See this beeping box? It’s the security alarm. When you open that door from the outside you have exactly forty-five seconds to punch five, five, five.” She hit the keys. “If I’m not here and you wish to leave, you have to punch five, five, five before opening the door. Do you understand?”

She couldn’t afford to keep replacing glass. Particularly after laying out five grand in bail.

Grinning, he said, “Aye, I push five three times whether coming or going, but I dinna have a key.”

Right. Because she’d not given a moment’s thought to where he’d be staying. Not one.

She could put him up at a hotel or the YMCA but that would be expensive and he’d already proved he was a menace to himself and society. She had to keep an eye on him until she could get her five thousand back.

And what if he disappeared as suddenly as he’d come? Would the court believe her? Give her back her money?

Augh! I am sooo not happy.

“Come on. You need to get cleaned up.”

Upstairs, she shrugged out of her coat, pulled his new clothes from the bags and led him into the bathroom. After pulling fresh towels from the cupboard, she turned on the shower. “Don’t take too long. Mrs. Grouse is holding supper for us.”

Cam stuck his hand in the spray. “ ’Tis warm.”

“Yes, but it won’t be for long, so you better hurry. The soap and all are sitting on the ledge. You can use my razor.”

“Thank ye.”

“You’re welcome.”

Grinning, he slipped the infamous jack handle from his kilt, placed it on the toilet seat, and undipped his brooch. Realizing he was about to strip right there in front of her, Claire turned toward the door.

“What, lass, is this?”

She turned and found him, bare to the waist, holding out her purple Lavender Fields. “Shampoo. You wash your hair with it. And what in God’s name happened to your chest?”

Bare-assed when he arrived, she knew for a fact that there hadn’t been a mark on him and now he was sporting several huge bruises and two scarlet welts.

“ ’Tis naught to fash about.” He reached for his belt.

“Wait just a minute.” She stepped closer and placed a tentative finger on one of the marks above his heart. “My God, they’re burns. How did you get these?”

He looked down and color rose in his cheeks. “I dinna ken what they call it, but the shock brought me to my knees.”

Sweet mother of God. “They used a stun gun on you?”

He shrugged and reached for his belt again. “The warm water is wasting, Claire,” he wiggled an eyebrow at her, “unless ye’d care to join me?”

“I’m going.” She’d dress his wounds later. After she gave Mr. Brindle, attorney at law, an earful about the Boston police.

Never having expected to need it, it took her a minute to find the attorney’s phone numbers. As she dialed his home—the number to be used only in emergencies—she pictured Cam’s wounds. He’d taken a beating. Of that she was certain.

On the fourth ring, a deep voice said, “Hello?”

“Mr. Brindle?”

“Yes?”

“This is Claire MacGregor. We spoke yesterday. I’m Tavish MacLean’s—”

“Yes, Ms. MacGregor, I remember who you are. How may I be of help?”

“I’m sorry to disturb you at home, but you know that stuff Tavish willed me? In one of the crates, there was this big box …”

She rattled on, bringing Mr. Brindle up to date on her hellacious day, knowing all the while she sounded like a raving lunatic, but there was no help for it.

She’d just gotten to her using a credit card to bail Cam out when Mr. Brindle said, “Ms. MacGregor, I hate to interrupt this … unusual story, but what’s all that racket in the background?”

“Oh, that’s just Sir Cameron MacLeod in my shower singing ‘You Take the High Road.’ ”

“You’re not serious.”

“Oh, but I am. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for the last fifteen minutes.” There was dead silence on the line for several seconds. “Mr. Brindle?”

“I’m sorry. I can be there in two hours if that’s not too late. You can finish telling me the story then.”

Thank God. “Thank you. Just ring the bell when you get here.”

She closed her cell phone, looked up, and found Cameron MacLeod standing barefoot in her bedroom doorway, his wet hair raked off his freshly shaven face and curling about his shoulders, his chest bare, and his narrow hips and powerful legs encased in skin tight—albeit relaxed fit—jeans. Good God, he was simply magnificent.

About to sigh at the heart-tripping sight, she spotted the jack handle poking out from MacLeod’s rear pocket and groaned instead, then flipped opened her cell phone and added Mr. Brindle’s phone numbers to her speed dial, something telling her she’d be needing them again.

“Have some more, dear.”

Cam patted his middle. “I canna, Mrs. Grouse. I’ll explode like a cannon should I try. But I thank ye.”

“No need. It’s been a pleasure cooking for a man again, watching him eat like there’s no tomorrow.”

She rose and started clearing the table. He came to his feet to help. “Have ye been widowed long?”

“A year.”

“My deepest sympathy.”

“Thank you. Henry was a good man and I miss him. Sometimes it feels like forever since we’ve spoken and other times it feels like just yesterday that we were arguing about where to set up the Christmas tree. He always wanted it there before the window and I liked it tucked in the corner to the right, so he wouldn’t keep knocking the needles off … making a mess.” Her pale blue eyes grew glassy. “What I wouldn’t give now to see him make a mess.”

Ack, the poor wee woman.

When his Margie had died of influenza, he, too, had wept and despite their being poorly matched. He couldna imagine the pain one might feel losing a mate one had loved for a lifetime.

Hoping to distract Mrs. Grouse from her grief, he asked, “Could ye kindly explain why ye have all these glittering trees about?” They were everywhere.

“They’re how we celebrate Christmas. Right after Thanksgiving—our national day of thanks—we buy trees, decorate them, and put gifts underneath. On Christmas morning, we gather around the tree and open the presents.”

Aha. His people exchanged gifts only at Hogmanay. Christmas Day was a day of repentance, when one went about asking people to call them by their most grievous fault. He’d been addressed as Sir Vain on more occasions than he’d care to remember.

He peered beneath Mrs. Grouse’s tree and found three gaily wrapped packages. “Are those for your bairns—children?”

“No. They’re from my daughter. She lives in California … on the west coast. I was hoping she’d come home for Christmas this year, but she couldn’t take time off from work. She works for a set designer, a man who decorates stages and theaters with furniture, lamps, and such.”

Humph. The daughter should be here, caring for her aged mother, not traipsing after some troubadour.

And speaking of women …

He followed Mrs. Grouse into the cramped kitchen. “Do you think Claire will be much longer?”

When the barrister had arrived she’d excused herself, saying she needed to speak with the man in private. Which was all well and good, but she’d been gone an hour according to Mrs. Grouse’s authentic Black Forest cuckoo clock, a most peculiar timepiece if ever there was one. An hour was more than ample time for any man to initiate mischief were he of a mind.

“I shouldn’t imagine they’ll be much longer. Why don’t we sit in the living room and watch TV. Do you like TV? Oh, of course, you don’t know if you like it or not, do you?”

He shrugged, kenning naught of teevee, his thoughts still consumed with the vulnerability of the young woman one story above. “Why is Claire not married?”

She should have a husband, someone to protect and provide for her.

Mrs. Grouse motioned for him to follow and waddled into her parlor. As she settled into her padded chair and he took a seat on her sofa, she said, “In part because no one has asked her.”

Were the men of this century daft? Although Claire wasna what one might call fair and fulsome, for her nose was too sharp and her countenance more heart-shaped than oval, she was most certainly attractive, compassionate, wealthy, and had without doubt the finest hurdies he’d seen in many a season. And he’d seen his fair share. “And the other part?”

“She’s never fallen in love.”

“Ah.” Love.

At its best, love was simply exalted lust. At its worst, love was merely a word cloaking selfishness, an ambitious man’s avarice for land and power or a woman’s lust for security. Aye, and he didna doubt for a moment that Minnie would claim she’d placed him in this hell because she loved him. He shuddered.

Mrs. Grouse picked up a thin, black box and waving it in his general direction, asked, “Do you find Claire attractive?”

Ack! Having come away the worse after his last brush with a wee black box, he eyed the auld woman warily. “Aye, verra.”

“I’m so pleased.”

Much to his relief, she shifted her aim from his chest to a large glass-fronted chest, which suddenly came to life with moving portraits speaking to him in a clipped fashion.

Astounded, Cam came to his feet. As he eased closer, the scene changed to a picture of massive devastation, then a woman appeared, telling him an earthquake destroyed hundreds of homes in Turkey. Amazing. He touched the glass with a tentative finger, then peered behind the box. He’d heard tell the French had revolving theaters, music boxes with mechanical puppets, but had been under the impression that they operated much like a clock. One had to wind the mechanism with a key or handle. Not so this theater.

Behind him, Mrs. Grouse said, “I don’t know how it works, but it’s entertaining. Watch this.”

Suddenly a goose was chasing a huge black dog around a fenced yard.

“That” she told him, “is the World’s Funniest Animals.”

Speaking of animals …

“Mrs. Grouse, have ye a game park close at hand?” Should he be trapped here for any length of time, he’d be in sore need of barter. He had much to repay Claire.

“You’re a gambler?” Mrs. Grouse heaved a huge sigh. “Claire will be so disappointed.”

Cam shook his head. “Nay, Mrs. Grouse, I never gamble. Coins are far too hard to come by. I meant a place with elk or deer.”

“Oh. We have a zoo.”

“Grand.” He didn’t care what they called the place so long as they had a buck or two worth reiving.

Pointing toward the teevee, she asked, “Would you like to see something else?”

Cam nodded and Mrs. Grouse, grinning, pushed more buttons. A man appeared before a map, much like the one Claire had shown him, telling him more snow was expected in the Great Lakes region.

“That’s the weather channel. But it gets better.” She clicked again and suddenly a very excited woman with black hair was telling him that for just thirty-nine dollars, he, too, could have skin men love to touch. As he pondered why any man worth the name would want such, the scene changed again and another woman, this one with a wild blond mane, told him he need only make two easy payments of eighteen ninety-nine and he, too, could own the lovely carving knives she held up for Cam to see. “Would you like a credit card?” she asked. Cam nodded. Aye, he most definitely would. He’d seen Claire use hers several times to barter.

“To apply for your home shopping card,” the woman told him, “just call the number on your screen and our helpful service representatives will be happy to assist you.”

He memorized the address. He would call on this helpful service representative on the morrow. “Verra good.”

“What, dear?”

“ ’Tis wondrous, Mrs. Grouse. Does Claire have such?”

“A TV?”

“Whatever this is called.” He waved toward the theater where the woman now displayed a gleaming array of knives.

“Yes, but Claire’s is a newer model. Hers hangs on the wall in her living room.”

“Ah, aye.” He’d seen it and thought it a black mirror.

He grinned. He’d have no problem waiting Claire MacGregor out now. He was clothed, well fed, and would soon have bucks and a credit card. And with them, weapons.

A strident bell rang and he spun to find Mrs. Grouse lifting a wee white box from the side table at her elbow. Smiling at him, she pressed the wee box to her ear and murmured, “Hello?” She then said, “All right, dear. I’ll tell him.” She placed the box back on the table and came to her feet. “Claire said to come upstairs.”

’Twas about bloody time.

“Thank ye, mistress, for the wonderful supper and the bonnie company.” He would ask Mrs. Grouse about the workings of the white box later.

Anxious to learn if the barrister had managed to get the ridiculous charges leveled against him dropped, Cam took the stairs two at a time and found Claire, her arms crossed at her waist, her eyes red rimmed and nose scarlet, standing by the door. “Ack, lass, what has happened?”

When she shook her head, Cam looked about the room and spotted a man’s coat tossed on the sofa. About to ask where her visitor was, he heard footsteps, turned toward Claire’s bedchamber door and saw a man of about forty years, tall and thin, his shirttails out and cravat askew. More damning, however, was the stain on his damn crotch.

Cam took a deep, calming breath and tipped up Claire’s chin with the crook of his finger. Within the sea green depths of her eyes he found grief; more evidence—had he needed it—that the man had taken advantage of his time alone with her. Heartsick that he hadna ignored her request to meet with the man alone, Cam brushed a tear from her cheek and turned to the man. And let fly a fist.