Highland Fling

He wasn’t blustering. He was giving her a choice. She didn’t doubt for a moment he could and would keep her tied to the bed if she didn’t cooperate. In fact, she could scream herself silly and it wouldn’t matter. He was in charge and no one would cross him. She didn’t have to know jack about history to know that. She recognized absolute power and in this world, Darach MacTavish was literally a law unto himself.

“I promise. I’ll stay in this room.”

He moved with a grace uncommon to a man of his size and knelt on the bed. Sensation fluttered low in her belly. His scent, the same that had drawn her over and over again for the past several weeks, was even more potent and alluring up close and personal. Dark hair was sprinkled tantalizingly along his legs and forearms, and she knew for a certain, blood-stirring fact that he was naked beneath his kilt. Muscles corded in his arms as he worked loose the knot binding her left hand. His hair swung forward, a dark curtain drawn on the harsh line of his nose, the bold line of his jaw, and the sensuous curve of his lips.

His fingers pressed against her wrist and palm as he worked at the knot in the material. She touched people all day, checking pulses, feeling for abnormalities, but this…this was different altogether. Her pulse leapt and tingles spread through her.

Kate flushed at his touch and the heat it evoked. She should look away—study the ceiling and mentally review the last cases she’d seen at work. But she couldn’t look away, couldn’t redirect her attention because that incredible surge of heat and lust and want drew her to him. It was a yearning born from deep within that surpassed attraction and even will. She didn’t want to feel drawn to him. She didn’t want to ache for more of his touch.

The fabric gave way, releasing her wrist…until he recaptured it in his hands. He stroked her pulse point, performing a sensual massage with his thumb. “I hope it didna hurt you.” The low timbre of his voice thrummed through her. He looked at her and there was no denying the heat smoldering in his gaze. Without looking away, he slowly brought her wrist to his mouth until his warm breath whispered against her flesh.

Her heart thundered in her chest. She ought to snatch her hand away but, God help her, she wanted to know the feel of that exquisitely sensual mouth against her skin. Wanted to know if the inherent promise in those well-shaped lips was real or merely fantasy’s fodder.

He pressed a kiss to her wrist and sweet heat poured through her. He nuzzled and suckled the flesh as if he were savoring a delicate treat. Instinctively she curled her fingers against his cheek. He lifted his head. “You would think me naught but a brutish Highlander were I tae bruise you.”

She reclaimed her hand and wet her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. “I’m fine. If you would just untie my other hand now.”

“As you wish, Katie-love.” She fully expected him to walk around to the other side of the bed. Instead, Darach MacTavish, with a wicked smile, climbed atop and straddled her. Powerful thighs braced on either side of her, he leaned forward and worked at the other knot.

What she’d felt outside that portrait now increased exponentially. She was wantonly, wickedly aware that except for two soft bits of cloth, she and this magnificent male specimen were naked. The heavy length of him pressed against her hip as he leaned over her. Stretched above her at the angle he was, the scar she’d daydreamed about earlier was slightly visible.

She reached up and traced her finger down the puckered line marring his back. His skin was warm and supple on either side of the scar’s hard ridge. Did she imagine the small shudder that ran through him?

“That must have hurt.”

He straightened and despite his arrogant grin, his eyes held the same hard glint they had when she’d made her stupid Queen of England quip. “’Twas just a scratch. I found the wrong end of a sword.”

“How were you stitched up?” Her training left her curious. She was certain it wasn’t a couple of shots of Lidocaine to numb it and then vicryl and ethilon sutures to close it up.

“We were a night’s ride from Glenagan. My father poured a measure of whiskey in it and then sewed it back together with horsehair.”

Whiskey in an open wound of that size must have been excruciating. “And you rode the next day?”

He shrugged. “We had a pressing need to get back. Sima applied a poultice when I returned and it was nary a problem. I was but a lad and healed quickly.”

He’d released her other wrist, absently rubbing her flesh. Kate needed to get herself out of this situation—both the immediate situation of being flat on her back with Braveheart sending her into a hormonal meltdown and the situation of having lost a century or two. And that meant focusing on something other than this man’s powerful thighs braced on either side of her legs, the shattering slide of his fingers against her skin, his scent, the fact that she was in his bed.

She swallowed and tried to project the decisive, I’m-in-charge voice that worked so well in the ER. “I’d like to get up now that you’ve untied me.”

He shifted off of her without saying anything but his arrogant smile spoke volumes, telling her he knew exactly how he affected her.

She stood and double-checked the knot holding her makeshift toga-kilt in place. “The sooner we can figure out how to get me back to where I belong and out of your hair, the better.”

KATIE WEXFORD CROSSED to stand before the waning fire and dug in her satchel. To be certain, it’d be much simpler if she weren’t here, but he didn’t want her gone. Yet. He’d thought to taunt her when he’d straddled her but he’d been effectively hoisted by his own petard. Her skin had felt like the finest wool beneath his fingertips. Her skin had tasted like a draught of the smoothest whiskey that lit a fire in his belly and left him wanting more.

Even if she was touched. And Hamish seemed to have caught her madness. But ‘twas a fact that the daft were touched by God and it was his job to protect both Kate and Hamish, now more than ever. Best to humor them both until he could decide on a plan of action.

But ‘twas also obvious Kate and Hamish were not strangers. Were it any other man, he’d have them both under guard. But more than once Hamish had proven himself loyal and trustworthy. Twice he’d covered Darach’s back in a skirmish when a dagger finding its home would have made Hamish laird since Darach had no offspring. Nay, perhaps both Kate and Hamish suffered from a fever that had affected their reasoning.

He followed her and tossed more peat onto the fire. The flickering light danced across her naked shoulders and the length of her neck bared by her shorn hair. Her scent, clean and fresh, like the moor on a sunny day, stirred his senses. Mayhap he was in danger of catching the same fever to be affected this way by a daft lass.

Footsteps pounded up the stone stairs and Hamish burst into the room carrying a young lad of no more than five. The lad, son of Anice and Grahame, lay still, his eyes closed, his face blue, water dripping from his hair and body. Hamish’s chest heaved and he spoke between great gulps of air. “I found…the lad…in the burn. Ye’ll have to tell his parents. Anice will near grieve herself to death.”

“Give me the boy,” the woman said, freeing the knot and yanking off the MacTavish plaid as she spoke, leaving herself naked once again.

The woman was truly mad.

“For God’s sake, I’m a doctor. This is what I do. Give him to me. I think I can save him.”

Without waiting and without regard for her naked state, she wrapped the plaid about the child and placed him on the floor. Without pause, she bent and blew a breath into his mouth. Again she repeated the action. The third time around, the lad retched water and blinked his eyes open.

By all that was holy…the lad had been dead and now he was alive. “What kind of magic are you?”

The woman looked at him with a mixture of exasperation and disgust. “It’s not magic. It’s medicine. I told you, I’m a doctor and that’s called resuscitation.” She smoothed a hand over the child’s brow. “He’ll be fine.” She stood and looked at Hamish. “Get him into dry clothes and let him sleep a while.”

Hamish left with the lad and Darach dug out yet another plaid for Katie. He studied her anew as she once again wrapped herself in the red and blue MacTavish colors.

“You saved the lad.” She had truly reacted as a healer.

“It’s what I’m trained to do. Anyone from my time period trained in basic rescue could’ve done the same,” she said.

Could it be possible? Was Hamish speaking the truth? Could it be so that Hamish wasn’t simply daft and the woman had come from the future? It could not be so.

Kate picked her satchel up from the floor where she’d dropped it when Hamish had entered. “I can see you’re still not convinced I am who I say I am.” She dug in the satchel and pulled out a card. “Here. It’s my driver’s license.” She handed him a card and pointed to a date. “There’s my birthdate.” Darach excelled at sums. He was two hundred and sixty-four years older than Kate Wexford.

What the devil was this? It was a portrait of her, yet not a portrait. “What kind of portrait is this?”

“It’s a picture. A photograph.” She shrugged, her palms upright. “I’m not sure when photography was invented. Obviously later than this.”

He studied the card. It didn’t do her justice. Short flaxen hair curled about her face. Wide green eyes with a hint of a frown marring her brow stared at him from the portrait. No smile lifted the corners of her full mouth. It did nothing to capture her wry humor and resilience. “Well, you’re more comely than this. I hope you didn’t pay much for the rendering.”

Her smile stopped just short of a laugh. “Thanks…I think. The DMV isn’t much into glamour shots.”

He had no idea what a DMV or a glamour shot was but he supposed it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was only about two hundred sixty-four years older than her. And he’d never seen anything like what she called a photograph.

He no longer doubted Hamish. He’d only ever known him to speak the truth and it appeared that it was truth rather than madness. Except the notion that he, Darach, needed this woman and that was why she was here. Her scent teased him, as did the gleam of light on her skin. He’d not deny he wanted her, but there was a world of difference between want and need. He’d wanted women and had them, but he’d never needed them.

“It explains much—your strange accent and manner of speech, your hair—but not why you are here.”

Kate glanced up from returning her card to her satchel. “I assure you I don’t want to be here, regardless of what Hamlet said.”

He’d be damned if she didn’t glare at him as if he was to blame for her being here. “It’s Hamish and might I remind you that you’re the one who showed up naked in my bed.”

She tilted her head at a haughty angle and stared down the length of her nose at him. “A gallant man wouldn’t have pointed that out and trust me, I want to be back home.”

He laughed and knew it held a mocking note. He took a step closer to her. “But you were attracted to me in that painting?” He could feel it now, like some force beneath the inky waters of a loch, something deep and strong between them, something potent beneath the surface.

She blinked, looking up at him and in that moment, he recognized an answering flash of acknowledgement in her eyes. “Yes, I’ll admit I was attracted to you when I saw the painting.” She smiled with a sweetness he didn’t trust. “Of course, that was before your personality factored into it.”