Choosing the Highlander (5 page)

The door flew open, and the blond warrior rushed in.

“Easy, lass.” He set down a candelabra and came to the bed. Bending her forward, he supported her with an arm under her breasts. Using his other hand, he rubbed circles on her back.

The coughs kept coming and her throat felt like gravel, but the secure hold the warrior had on her kept her from rattling apart at the seams. Her face heated from the exertion, and she worried she wasn’t taking in enough air. She might pass out again.

No. She would have no say in what happened to her if she lost consciousness. She’d surrendered enough control since being dragged into this place and time. Calling on her will, she suppressed the coughing enough to suck in the smallest trickle of air. It couldn’t possibly be enough, but it was all she could get.

“That’s it. Easy. Slow, shallow breaths. ’Twill take time for your lungs to recover.”

The warrior had a soothing burr to match his comforting touch. His voice helped focus her concentration. She kept fighting for each insubstantial breath while he whispered encouragements.

Such a difference in him since she’d last seen him, decked in armor like armadillo skin, teeth bared, eyes throwing off sparks. She’d wondered whether his shoulders truly filled out the protective gear he’d been wearing that night or if like some of her coworkers, male and female alike, his uniform had been designed to exaggerate his size. Now she had her answer.

Gone was his kilt and armor. He now wore a quilted, belted pourpoint of burgundy brocade, the garment that would protect him from the hard joints of his armor. For the college-age guys she’d taken theater classes with, a good pourpoint could make them look like a million bucks. In Wilhelm’s case,
he
made the garment look like a million bucks. Buttons stacked one on top of the other fastened it from his throat to where it terminated at mid-thigh. Below the embroidered hem, off-white leggings hugged his well-muscled legs all the way down to shoes of leather that appeared butter-soft. Even with her limited knowledge of historical dress, she understood that peasants of this time wouldn’t have access to dyed fabrics and tailored fashions of this quality. She couldn’t help being impressed.

It had escaped her attention until just then that the blanket she clutched to her chest didn’t cover her back. The warrior’s warm hand caressed her skin as his burr caressed her ears.

Someone who spoke and handled her so gently probably didn’t intend her harm. Still, she must be careful. He treated her gently now, but how gentle would he be if she asked him the date or if he saw the things in her backpack that had condemned her in the eyes of her accusers?

If she wanted to return home, she couldn’t afford mistakes. She couldn’t afford to become distracted by the butterflies assaulting her stomach when she met the warrior’s gaze.

Attraction wouldn’t help toward her goal, so she ignored it. She would be wise to focus on this man’s decency, not his rugged good looks. He’d rescued her. That meant he had some sort of morals. Capitalizing on that would be her first order of business.

In her career, she earned the respect and cooperation of her male peers by being all business, and giving no quarter. If she played her cards right, she could do the same here using her adopted persona. She’d have this man tripping over himself to help her in no time.

She opened her mouth to take control of the situation and ask how long she had been unconscious, but at that very moment the door opened. A slender man dressed all in black except for a white cloth on his head entered the room. Lines around his eyes and mouth suggested he was much older than the warrior, but when he aimed a smile her way, years melted off his face.

“Thank ye, Father Anselm,” the warrior said, taking a cup from the older man.

He’s a monk.
They must be in a monastery.

The warrior brought the cup to her lips.

She was so parched she didn’t care what was in it. She drank deeply. Cool liquid eased the tightness of her damaged tissues. Water, clean and nourishing. She emptied the cup, sputtering only a little, while the warrior spoke with Father Anselm.

Their exchange was too rapid for her to follow. She picked out a few words, but their Scots dialect was even more mystifying to her than that of the locals she’d interacted with in modern-day Inverness. It was the English language, but accented so differently it might as well have been another tongue.

The words that stood out to her were “other lass” and “bairn,” which she thought meant baby.

She gasped, remembering the pregnant woman. “Where is she?” she asked the warrior. “The other woman. Is she all right?” Her voice was croaky, but it would have to do.

“
Whist.
Doona speak.” He slowed his speech when addressing her, making him much easier to understand. “Your lungs have been abused and will require rest. ’Tis only been a few hours since we arrived. Ye canna tell from this windowless room, but ’tis early morn’. Have ye some spirits and bread?” he asked the monk.

Anselm left, presumably to get something alcoholic for her, which she had no intention of refusing. Hopefully, he would bring some meat as well as the bread the warrior had mentioned. Her stomach felt so hollow it ached. She’d never gotten that breakfast she’d been looking forward to with Leslie, and it felt like a whole day had passed since then, although her sense of timing could be off after losing consciousness.

When the door closed behind Anselm, the warrior returned his attention to her. An angry bruise with a scabbed-over cut marred his cheek. What other injuries had he sustained? Why did it upset her to see him battered?

The bruise didn’t detract from his impeccable handsomeness. The light of the nearby candelabra gilded the pleasing angles of his face. His short hair had been combed and his face shaven. She could look at this man for hours, study him like a priceless sculpture and envy the artist whose hands had touched him intimately enough to create such rugged beauty.

Connie had chosen to pursue Milt in large part because he was handsome and particular about his appearance. But looking at Milt had never made her insides burn with embers of attraction like they did now, in the presence of this masculine work of art.

So much for ignoring your attraction, Connie girl.
Hard to ignore something so visceral.

This warrior carried himself in a way that resonated with her on a base level. He possessed an air of brutal masculinity that no modern-day corporate ladder climber could hope to match. Never in a million years would she have expected to be drawn to a man for his unapologetic maleness and his superiority at something as barbaric as warfare. A man like this had never been part of the plan for her life.

Still wasn’t.

And yet, she couldn’t look away from him. His eyes glinted like silver, almost like they radiated an unearthly inner light, which must, of course, be a trick of the candles and the man’s unusual eye color.

She had the strangest feeling those eyes could see more than she wanted to reveal. For an instant, she welcomed the notion. She wanted to speak the truth and only the truth. It would be liberating.

Then she remembered herself. She couldn’t tell him the truth. She would be wise to avoid speaking much at all, let alone asking the biggest question on her mind: the date. He would think she was nuts. Why had she entertained the thought of confessing everything, even for an instant?

His gaze flickered, and his lips quirked, giving her the impression he had just accepted a challenge. When he rose to his full height to tower over her, she missed his nearness. She also steeled herself to take control of the situation before he did, because she didn’t like that look in his eye one bit. She’d seen that same look too many times from her coworkers. It often preceded an attempt to distract her from her goal or to railroad her before she could achieve it.

“You never answered my question,” she said in a flawless British accent despite the scraping rawness of her throat. “How is the other woman?”

“I’ll be the one making queries, lass. And you’ll cease this nonsense. You’re no’ English.”

Her heart stumbled around in her chest. He couldn’t know that. He had to be bluffing.

“How dare you insult me by questioning my nationality?” She kicked at the bedding until she could climb out with a blanket wrapped around her for modesty. Her feet burned and she trembled with weakness, but she stood toe to toe with him.

He was half a foot taller, and he didn’t back up a single inch, even though they were practically close enough to waltz.

“Sit down,” he commanded.

“I will not. You have no authority over me.” The refusal came to her swiftly. Caution kicked into gear a second later. She sucked in a breath. Had she gone too far? Had she dropped the accent? Oh, no. She had.
Great job, Connie girl. Good thing you didn’t pursue acting after all.
 

The warrior scooped her up so fast she didn’t have time to react. The throbbing in her feet instantly eased, and the secure way he held her made her want to curl up against his chest and sob out all her fear and uncertainty. When she was near this warrior her innermost, secret thoughts seemed closer to the surface.

What was happening to her? Men never affected her this way. Even Milt, whom she’d been with for years, hadn’t made her skin tingle and her heart leap with giddiness at his touch. He hadn’t made her want to confide in him and trust him with her weaknesses.

The warrior laid her gently in the bed and remained over her, feet on the floor, hands planted in the bedding on either side of her shoulders.

Kiss me,
she thought ridiculously. Her nipples tightened and her body softened beneath the blankets.

“I shall speak, and you shall listen,” the warrior said with authority.

Somehow, she understood this was not a man she could manipulate by pretending to be something she was not. In fact, as she met his gaze, she felt a fool for the charade.

“The young lass is in the next room,” he said.

Thank heavens. The pregnant woman hadn’t been left behind. Connie determined to concentrate on the poor girl’s plight rather than on the way her body reacted to the warrior’s closeness.

“She wasna touched by the fire, but she is in poor condition. I doubt she has the strength to deliver her bairn, but my cousin is determined to see her through it. My guess is it’ll be happening any day now.”

The poor thing. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Terran and Anselm are doing all that can be done. Your duty here is to rest and heal.”

Anselm was the monk. Terran must be the cousin. She began slotting bits of information into categories. The more data she had, the more sound her decisions would be. She added knowledge of Anselm and Terran to her cache along with their location, which was either Perth or not far from Perth, since travel in this time would be limited to walking and riding horses.

“My name is Wilhelm Murray,” the warrior said, pronouncing the Germanic name with only the slightest hint of an initial
V
.

That tidbit fell into a slot too: the name of her rescuer…and the first man that had ever made her stomach tighten pleasurably upon entering the room.

“Son of the Murray,” he went on. “My father is Laird and Barron of Dornoch. You will be telling me your name when I ask for it, and you willna attempt to lie to me. Understand?”

Being presumed a liar rubbed her the wrong way—even though she had attempted to lie, in a roundabout way, with that British accent. Making matters worse, her body’s reactions to him were amplified when he dictated orders to her. Never had she found
that
particular characteristic attractive in a man before. Attempting to boss her around was a sure way for a man to become the recipient of a Dear John letter. Milt had understood that. It was one of the reasons they were so well suited to one another.

“Understand?” he pressed when she flattened her lips instead of responding.

Did the man have a lie detector hidden in his trousers or something?
No, don’t think about his trousers.
 

She couldn’t tell the truth because he would never believe her. She couldn’t lie because she couldn’t afford to make an enemy of him, especially when he’d rattled off some impressive sounding credentials—and apparently she wasn’t as good an actor as she’d thought, because he’d seen right through her.

Not knowing what else to do, she nodded. Hopefully, he wouldn’t ask more than her name.

Wilhelm lifted his chin. All at once, he projected arrogance and pleasure at her capitulation.

The look should have infuriated her. Instead, it made her oddly aware of her nakedness beneath the blankets, and the awareness was far from unpleasant.

He dropped his gaze to her mouth for a split second. “Since you’ve suffered damage from the smoke, I shall ask naught of you until the morrow—” Oh good, she’d have the night to figure something out. “Naught save that ye listen.”

That she could do. The more information she gathered, the better.

“I have gone to considerable trouble to rescue you from Ruthven,” he said. She remembered the bearded man with a churning of her stomach. “We both ken ye would have died, so let us not pretend otherwise.”

She felt her lips thin. Did he have to remind her of her helplessness? Unfortunately, he was completely right. If not for him, she wouldn’t be here right now. She should be thankful to be anywhere, in any time. She was alive, after all. Her mouth softened.

The warrior glanced at it again. “Here is how you shall be thanking me, lass.”

She held her breath. Would he command her to sleep with him? She kind of hoped so. She’d tolerated sex with Milt, but had never really enjoyed it, viewing it as a way to show she valued him and to ensure his faithfulness. Wilhelm made her suspect there could be more to sex than a sometimes pleasant but more often awkward rubbing of body parts.

“Who are you, and what have you done with my sister?”
Leslie’s teasing words from Druid’s Temple came back to her. True, her reaction to Wilhelm was extremely out of character. But goodness, she’s been through an ordeal. She had a right to have sex with a stunning warrior if she wanted to. Didn’t she?