Perfect Timing 2: Highland Fling Read online

  “And you can cut the accent.” She raised her voice and spoke to the room at large, so any hidden microphones could pick her up clearly. “If someone’s rolling tape cut it right now and we’ll just forget about a lawsuit.”

  Despite the affable smile curling his lips, the man’s dark eyes raked her, assessed her. Even under the bizarre circumstances, a betraying heat spread through her.

  “And I want my clothes.” She used the tone that always got results. “Now.”

  “Do ye now? I’m perfectly fine with the view. And I have no idea where you left your clothes, lass.” He pulled out a short dagger and the first frisson of fear replaced her confusion. “Pass along that satchel you’re holding onto and I will check that your clothes are not in there.”

  Kate clutched her Prada bag even closer. “Forget it. I’m not handing over my purse.” She ran an unsteady hand over the bag. No bulge of clothes there, even though she hadn’t expected there to be. “My clothes aren’t in there. Now, Mr. Whoever You Are, hand over my clothes.”

  He shrugged massive shoulders that gleamed in the firelight and glanced around the room. “They are nae here. And mayhap you could tell me who you are and how you came to be in my bed without your clothes.”

  “I’m not discussing anything until I’ve got something to put on. That scarf of yours is better than nothing.” Kate was used to immediate compliance. She absolutely wouldn’t let him see that he, along with the whole situation, confused her.

  “Scarf?”

  Kate pointed to the long plaid scarf he held in his hands. The one that matched his kilt. “Yeah, your scarf.”

  “Are you daft, woman, that you would call me plaid a scarf? But if that’s what it takes to get an answer out of you….” Without further ado he unwound the remaining length of material and tossed it to her.

  Oh. My. God. The bottom and the top were all one long piece of material and he was stark naked beneath it. She saw naked bodies all the time, but this was different. Vastly different. She swallowed hard and dragged her eyes back up to his face. No need to gape like a hysterical virgin or a sex-starved spinster.

  “You could’ve told me you didn’t have on anything beneath it.”

  “You didna ask.” His smile held a wealth of arrogance.

  For an instant, Kate considered tossing the material back at him, but if one of them had to be naked…well, better him than her. Plus, if you had to have a naked man standing by a bed…well, he was a fine specimen.

  “Who’s in charge here?” she asked as she wrapped the material, still bearing his body heat and his hauntingly familiar scent, around herself toga-style.

  He cocked his head to one side and looked down the hooked nose that saved his face from being too pretty. “You’re wearing the MacTavish colors and you have to ask?”

  This whole thing was way too weird and she might’ve been more open to the practical joke if she hadn’t been naked and if the now-naked man wasn’t wielding a knife. “Oh yeah, how could I forget? You’re Darach MacTavish…and I’m the Queen of England.”

  The words were hardly out of her mouth when she found herself pinned flat on her back, the man atop her. The cool metal of his dagger bit against her neck. His eyes were flat and cold. “I’m not sure whether you are daft or bold or both, but those are dangerous words to speak on MacTavish land.”

  For the first time, Kate was thoroughly frightened, not just because she was being straddled by a knife-wielding naked psycho, but for the first time she recognized this might be something other than a hoax.

  Perhaps it was the flicker of fear in her eyes, but the man moved the blade away from her throat.

  “Thank you,” she gasped, only then realizing she’d been holding her breath, afraid to breathe.

  He slid off of her. “I’m sorry to have frightened you.”

  “I apologize for my earlier sarcasm. Obviously I’m not the Queen of England. I don’t even like the royal family and I think it was extremely tacky for Charles to marry that Camilla.” She caught herself. Fear had her babbling like the proverbial brook. “My name is Kate Wexford. Dr. Kate Wexford. Where exactly am I?”

  Pity, along with a hearty dose of mistrust, warred in his eyes, as if she were the one suffering psychological problems. “Where would you like to be, Kate-lass?”

  “Back where I was five minutes ago? Looking at this picture instead of standing in it. Where am I?”

  The man stepped back a pace to stand tall and proud by the bedside, dagger still in hand. “You’re in the keep of Castle MacTavish at Glenagan.”

  Truly. Not much escaped her, but she was having a heck of a time keeping up with this. She dealt with the regular druggies and the occasional psychotic in the ER. This man didn’t have the wild-eyed, high-on-drugs look or the psychotic demeanor, but humoring him seemed the best course of action. “And you’re Darach MacTavish?”

  He bowed formally from the waist, as if he were garbed in royalty’s finest and wasn’t splendidly, impressively naked before her. “Aye, I am the Mac-Tavish, laird of Glenagan.”

  And just how out of touch with reality was he? “And what year is it?”

  “The year be 1744.” He thought it was 17-freaking-44? Okay. “What year might you think it?” He spoke carefully, as if she was the one with the problem. Delusional people were actually more pitiful than frightening, except those armed with knives—that was a bad combination.

  She hedged. “Uh…I thought it might be a little later than that.” She carefully slid to the edge of the bed. “So, it was nice to meet you Darach MacTavish but I think I should be going now.”

  “And where might you be heading?” His low, rich voice held a note of indulgence.

  “I should really be getting home. I have lots of people who’ll worry if I don’t get home.” And that was one whopping lie and a half. Unfortunately, no one would miss her until she didn’t turn up for her next shift two days from now. Even then no one would worry because Torri Campbell would eagerly snitch that Kate was indulging in a condom-a-thon.

  “And where are your people?” His raised brows lent him a distinctly wicked, in a pulse-quickening way, look.

  Okay. She’d play his game, as if he didn’t know from where she’d been abducted. “Atlanta. Atlanta, Georgia.”

  His brow furrowed as though in confusion.

  “It’s dark,” he said, nodding his head toward the window cut high into the stone wall, “and night’s no place for a lass alone. Rest, Kate, and in the morn we’ll return you to your people.”

  Exhaustion flooded her body and her mind. It was more than she could assimilate. However, she deduced that Darach MacTavish, or whoever was standing naked before her like some warrior of old obviously meant her no harm. That time had come and gone.

  “You aren’t going to tie me up are you?”

  A glimmer of a smile lurked in his eyes and crooked one corner of his sensual mouth. “I can if you want me to, but it’s not necessary. You are free to leave, but I wouldna advise it.”

  “Why not?”

  “You are a stranger to these parts. If you leave this room, the women would stone you. The men…well, they aren’t adverse to a comely lass, daft or no. I mean you no harm, Kate Wexford. If I did, you’d have already found it. And don’t think of trying to take my dagger while I sleep. Men have died for less.”

  Having felt the press of his blade, she didn’t doubt it. She wrapped the soft wool more tightly around her, ensconcing herself in the same scent that had beckoned to her when she’d been drawn to the damn painting in the first place. Had it been only half an hour ago or a lifetime? She glanced at her watch. It had stopped. This situation was getting weirder by the minute.

  And despite the fact that she felt leaden with fatigue, there was no way she was sleeping until she got some answers. But she’d pretend to sleep and then when Tall, Dark and Naked drifted off to la-la land, she’d nose around and see what she could find out.

  “I’m not interested in your dagger,” sh
e said, reassuring him. Unfortunately, with his dagger by his side, it was difficult to look at the blade rather than his private sword.

  “Be a good lass and get some rest.”

  When had anyone last spoken to her in that patronizing tone? Who did he think he was? Oh, yeah. He thought he was the laird of Glenagan. Her eyes drifted closed. She’d…fake…him out until…he…slept….

  DARACH KNEW THE MOMENT sleep claimed Kate Wexford. What he still didn’t know, however, was what manner of woman she was. Without question, she was different, with her strange accent and speech and her hair shorn in the manner of a lad. And with all of her odd ways, why had he felt a recognition in his soul, as if he knew her? And how the devil had she found her way to his bed?

  He watched her sleep, noting the dark smudges beneath her eyes where her lashes fanned over her cheeks, the bow of her upper lip, the roundness of her bare shoulder, the curve of her breasts and hips covered by his plaid, the delicate arch of her bare feet. And he felt something inside, the same thing he’d first felt when he’d seen her on his bed, a tingle that ran through him from toe to finger tip.

  Kate Wexford should have been stopped by his guard-at-arms. Barring that, she should have never made it past the grand hall to the keep. Of certain, she never should have gained access to his chamber. Was everyone in his house asleep or simply daft? By all that was holy, Hamish would answer to him.

  He crossed the room, taking care not to slam the door behind him, and made his way down the narrow stairs he’d climbed since he was a wee lad. Within minutes his second in command stood before him as summoned. A year younger than Darach, Hamish’s prematurely gray hair left him looking older. The two had grown up together, watching one another’s backs, forging a friendship deeper than that of a laird and his clansman. Darach trusted Hamish like a brother.

  “There’s a lass in my bed,” Darach said.

  Hamish cocked his head to one side. “Do you find her comely?”

  Darach didn’t know exactly what he thought about the woman. She lacked the striking beauty of some, but there was something about her that unleashed a yearning in him he’d never before known. “She’s fair enough.”

  “Then what are ye doin’ standin’ here with me?” Hamish grinned.

  “I’m wantin’ to know how a stranger to these parts managed to slip past everyone in this house and find her way to my bed.”

  Hamish’s grin faded. “None of the men have reported anyone.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Do you want me to send someone to fetch her or should I get her myself?”

  “No. Leave her be.”

  “But—”

  “I said leave her be and mention her to no one.” His people were a suspicious lot and with them preparing to march on the English crown…. “Having a strange woman show up would unsettle things for sure. Let me give her some thought.”

  Hamish nodded, his gray hair glinting in the light from the sconce. “Where does she say she is from?”

  “A place I have never heard of.” He passed a weary hand over his forehead. For a heartbeat he pondered that he might have conjured her in his mind. Nay, the sweet press of her flesh beneath his had been real enough. The confusion and anger darkening her green eyes, her galloping heartbeat beneath him all spoke to a woman of honeyed breath rather than some figment of his imagination.

  “And where is she now?” Hamish asked.

  “In my bed, where she’ll stay until I decide what I’m going to do with her. I promised her passage home tomorrow, but until I’m certain she isna a Sassenach spy, she will stay. Her name is British enough. Kate Wexford.” It sounded foreign on his tongue. His conscience didn’t quibble at the change of plans. His first responsibility lay in protecting his people. Even so, the thought of her ripe curves beneath his plaid stirred his blood and various and sundry parts. “And I know what I’ll be doin’ with her soon enough.”

  “What if she isn’t wanting a tumble?”

  He hadn’t thought of that, he’d just thought they hadn’t made it that far yet. “I have yet to bed a lass less than willing.”

  “And you ken she’s willing?”

  He had yet to meet a woman who wasn’t. “Figure it out for yourself man. She was in my bed with no clothes on.”

  “I would ken she’s willing.”

  The memory of her pale skin against his plaid stirred his blood. A few bonnie words and the lass would be his for the tumbling. He smiled at Hamish. “Or she will be soon enough.”

  KATE AWOKE, instantly alert. There was a lot to be said for the efficacy of power napping she’d perfected as a resident. She knew without glancing about that the Darach MacTavish wannabe was gone—knew it because she didn’t feel him in the room.

  What to do? How to get out of here? The problem was the man could return at any moment. She needed help. She needed to let someone know where she was, which she didn’t exactly know, or at least that she’d been taken against her will. She pulled out her cell phone. It was still on, but there wasn’t a signal. Dammit. How could they have whisked her away to a place so remote there was no cell phone signal? Marc Fredericks was pulling a stint with Doctors Without Borders in Zimbabwe and even he had cell service. In freaking Zimbabwe, nonetheless.

  Calm. Stay calm. She pulled out and turned on her Blackberry. She waited, but no signal bars showed. What the…? She’d paid a boatload of money for guaranteed service. She had it in writing. The only way she shouldn’t have an Internet signal was if all the satellites were down and that was a technological impossibility.

  Exasperated and slightly panicked she stood and went to the window, trying to get her bearings, shivering at the constant draft in the room. The night sky blanketed the earth with an incredible display of stars. She realized she must be about three or four stories up because she could literally see for miles. With a dawning sense of dismay she realized the stars shone so bright because they weren’t competing with street lights. They weren’t competing with any lights. For as far as she could see, which she estimated to be several miles from this vantage point, there were no lights other than the odd pinprick which seemed to be more in keeping with a campfire than a streetlight.

  And where were the trees? Every landscape within a several hour drive of Atlanta boasted a canopy of trees but all she saw was rolling hills, desolate and barren in the starlight.

  She turned from the window, suddenly feeling frantic. Ohmigod. The picture. The picture from the museum. She’d missed it earlier because it had been out of her line of vision. It was the same, the exact same portrait. At least it looked the same. Okay. Definitely weird. And staring at the picture wouldn’t get her any answers. If she’d fallen through it to get here, ostensibly she should be able to fall through it to get back home. She walked over and tried to keep going. Ow! She bounced off of the picture and the stone wall. That hurt. And she was still here. Damn.

  She methodically checked the stone wall. No electrical outlets surreptitiously tucked behind furniture to keep the authenticity of the room. Nope. They simply weren’t there. No central heating and air-conditioning vents. No phone jacks. No nothing except stone walls and floors and a fireplace nearly big enough for her to stand in and a constant draft of cold air. Dread slid down her spine and she pulled the soft wool more tightly around her.

  She straightened her back and squared her shoulders, drawing herself up to her full five feet and five-and-a-half inches. Clearly, this room held no answers. She forced herself to walk to the wooden door cut into the stone wall.

  She ignored the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. How many times had she watched scary movies and seen the heroine doing something stupid like opening the door to explore when sure as heck something awful awaited her on the other side? But she had to find out what was going on and her only hope was in discovering what lay out there.

  She grasped the rustic metal latch and opened it. Just like in the movies, it swung wide with an accompanying screech, not exactly what she needed
to settle her nerves.

  Cold and inky black swallowed her. A musty dankness permeated the chill. Kate hesitated, her nerve nearly deserting her. She clutched the material around her, finding an odd comfort in the man’s scent clinging to the fabric.

  Stairs went up and down in the narrow winding case. Obviously she was in some sort of turret. This just sucked. She wasn’t some princess. She hadn’t been sitting around waiting on her prince to show. There was no prince. And Darach MacTavish was too raw, too much man to be prince material.

  She balanced herself along the wall with her right hand and edged her way along the staircase. The cold stone floor freezing against her bare feet, she used her toes to feel over the fairly sharp edge of the stone to the next step. Within seconds, the narrow, curving steps and wall obliterated the meager light from the open bedroom door. But even with her pisspoor sense of direction, she wasn’t likely to get lost with up and down as her only options.

  She heard him, smelled him, felt him to her core before she met him in the dark. Not wanting to send them both tumbling down the narrow winding stairs she whispered into the quiet. “MacTavish?”

  “Did you miss me that much, Katie-love, that ye had to come looking for me?”

  No one called her Katie and certainly no one in their right mind called her Katie-love, but she was in a situation she neither understood nor controlled and he seemed to be in charge so she supposed he could call her whatever struck his fancy. And she didn’t miss the dark note of displeasure underlying his seemingly light remark.

  “I was simply trying to get my bearings.”

  “And I suppose you missed my suggestion you keep to my room.” He moved a step closer and his body heat enveloped her. There was nowhere to go. His fingers traced the line of her jaw, down the length of her throat to the ridge of her collarbone. He brushed his thumb against her wildly beating pulse. “Or mebbe you wanted me to tie you to my bed. Is that it Katie-love?”

  He feathered his hands along her shoulders, down her arms and gently captured her wrists. He raised them above her head and pinned them against the wall with one hand. Cold, rough-hewn stones bit into her shoulders and arms. His hand, callused but warm, cupped her neck and he traced a sensual pattern with his thumb against her throat.