The Highlander Next Door

by Janet Chapman

  Birch scurried back with a startled squeak when the eagle suddenly shifted and a small object dropped onto the windshield, then clattered down over the hood and fell to the gravel in front of her.

  Seriously? Birch eyed the eagle silently eyeing her back, then bent to squint at the ground. She gave another quick glance at the roof of the truck, then stepped closer and picked up what appeared to be a ring. She held it up in the moonlight, only to go perfectly still again when she realized she had seen it—or one just like it—before. Seriously! It looked exactly like the freaking ring the woman in the white car had been wearing when the bitch had flipped her off.

  But how was that possible? Even crazier, where had the eagle found it? Birch looked up with every intention of asking that exact question, only to see the bird now eyeing her basket—which she immediately hugged to her chest. “Don’t even think about it. This is for Niall. I’m worried he hasn’t eaten all day.”

  The eagle just stared at her, its steady yellow eyes appearing way too bright to be reflecting only moonlight. Birch looked down at the ring, glanced over at the cottage, then back up at the bird. “Merde,” she muttered, slipping the ring in her robe pocket. “Okay, you can have one of the sandwiches.”

  She walked along the length of the truck and, after looking toward the beach to make sure Shep wasn’t around, set down the basket and took out one of the thick foil packages. She walked a bit farther up the driveway while unfolding the foil and started to lift out the overstuffed sandwich—but dropped the entire package and scurried away with another squeak when a dark blur silently glided past her.

  The poor thing more or less crashed to the ground several feet beyond the fallen sandwich, and Birch grabbed her arm where the tip of its wing had touched her. “Now I know where your kid gets his boldness. Oh, you’re limping,” she rushed on as it made its way over to the food. At least she thought it was limping, unless that was just how birds with big sharp talons walked. “Well, Mr. Eagle,” she said, deciding it was a boy, since every other male she’d seen today had been limping. “Thank you for the ring.” She picked up the basket and started backing away. “I just wish you could tell me where you got it. No, no I don’t,” she quickly added in a whisper. “A talking tree was freaky enough; I don’t need a bird talking to me, too.”

  Not that this particular bird was even listening, having dismissed her in favor of gobbling up the sandwich it had quite handsomely paid for. Birch pulled the ring out of her pocket and studied it as she walked the length of the truck and turned toward the cottage, trying to decide whether or not to tell Niall what had just happened.

  But then she remembered he hadn’t seemed especially fond of the bird that had given her the barrette, even suggesting she douse it with bear spray if it came around again. So she slid the ring back in her pocket, worried he’d run out and start throwing rocks at the poor thing when he saw the foil wrapper on the ground and realized she’d given it one of his sandwiches. Yeah, she’d wait and tell him tomorrow morning after the eagle was long gone. She just hoped Niall would believe she recognized something she’d seen for all of two seconds while being forcibly run off the road.

  She might not wear jewelry all that often, especially here in the wilderness, but she certainly knew a thing or two about it. In fact, whenever her father had escaped to his sanctuary in the St. Germaine basement to reload bullets, she would sit at the little desk he’d set up for her in the corner and study the jewelry sections of auction house catalogs. She’d give him credit; Claude hadn’t even raised an eyebrow as his six-year-old daughter had added the catalogs to her dictated list of things she wanted from the penthouse when he went to get her clothes. But after Grand-père Fredrick’s reaction the first time he saw them—his eyes bulging as he’d read the estimated values—Birch had started keeping the catalogs in her dad’s gun safe.

  She’d known her father actually got her when, after the sadly awkward birthday celebration at dinner the day she’d turned seven, he’d led her downstairs carrying her big heavy book on guns, opened his safe, and handed her several brand new catalogs. Twenty-five-year-old street cop Claude St. Germaine stopping into fancy auction houses asking for catalogs; now that truly had been an act of love. It was also when Birch had known everything would be okay.

  Realizing she was standing in front of Niall’s door, she took a deep breath, plastered a warm smile on her face, and knocked. She ran a hand through her loose curls when she heard a rasped “Just a minute” and had just lifted the basket in front of her when the door opened to reveal the pajama-clad—bottoms and top—gorgeous mountain of testosterone she intended to use as a mattress for the next eight hours.

  “I brought you food,” she said brightly, walking past him before he could realize her neighborly offering came with strings attached. It was, after all, his fault she was so exhausted. She set the basket on the counter, plastered her smile back in place, and turned to see him still holding on to the open door. “Shep’s gnawing on a juicy beef bone down at the beach, because I told him bones are outside treats and to just bark when he’s done and I’ll let him in,” she said, hoping he’d catch the hint that she was planning to still be here when Shep barked. “Well,” she continued when Niall remained silent, politely covering a yawn with one hand while using the other to loosen the belt on her robe as she slowly inched toward the bedroom. “If you’re hungry you can go ahead and eat now, but if you still need to catch up on your— Oh, maudit,” she growled when she saw him arch a brow. “I’m only here looking for a nice warm body to drape over so I can finally get some sleep.”

  She marched into the bedroom while shedding her robe, dropped it on the floor, and climbed up onto the mattress. “You might have spent last night dodging lightning and falling trees,” she muttered as she rearranged the pillows on the unmade bed that was . . . oh, God, it was still warm with his body heat. “But I’d take that over tossing and turning all night worrying about getting a call at freaking three in the morning, and then spending all day dealing with a mother and daughter who show up with only the clothes on their backs and who won’t tell me their freaking last name.”

  Looking over her shoulder to see him silently standing in the bedroom doorway holding the remaining foil-wrapped sandwich, Birch turned to sit in the middle of the mattress, took a calming breath, and gave him a sheepish smile. “I really am really tired, Niall. And I’m pretty sure I could finally fall asleep if I had a nice strong heartbeat to listen to instead of the crazy chatter going on in my brain. If I promise not to attack you, can . . . can I stay?”

  She dropped her head on a silent shudder when he turned and walked away without saying anything, so damned tired she was dangerously close to bursting into tears—even though she never cried. Yeah, well, she didn’t need to sleep draped over some dumb old man anyway, any more than she needed a stupid boyfriend. She crawled to the edge of the mattress looking for where she’d thrown her robe, spotted it beside the door, then turned and climbed off the monstrously tall bed—only to yelp a nasty curse when the light in the hallway went out half a second before she was swept up against a big solid chest.

  Birch started to say that a little warning would be nice, but snapped her mouth shut when she realized he was climbing into bed and taking her with him. So she started to sigh in relief, but sucked it back in when she realized he still hadn’t said one single word since . . . Oh, God, what if he wanted to have sex?

  She really didn’t think she could muster the energy to wrap her arms around all his amazing muscle, much less kiss him. Surely he’d noticed she was wearing unsexy pajamas; how much more blatant did she have to be? Damn; she knew she should have worn her I’m having my period so leave me alone granny gown.

  “I . . . ah, I really don’t think I have the energy to—” she began as he stretched out with her on top of him, his soft shush cutting her off.

  “Go to sleep, lass,” he whispered as he held her head again
st his chest. “I prefer my women awake when I make love to them.”

  Birch thought she should probably thank him for letting her stay, but she was so tired and he was so warm and solid and here. And he probably wouldn’t have heard her, anyway, over the sound of his strongly beating heart. Yeah, she’d thank him tomorrow, right before she told him about the eagle giving her the ring.

  But she’d probably leave out the part about her giving it one of his . . .

  • • •

  The woman was passed out as limp as a rag doll before Niall even finished positioning her away from the gash in his thigh. Not that he minded being used as a mattress now that he understood why she preferred sleeping draped over him rather than wrapped securely in his arms. Aye, he supposed being trapped under the crushing weight of concrete and steel as a child might haunt a person all the way to their grave. Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if Birch intended to be cremated instead of buried.

  Niall grinned up at the ceiling, deciding her coming over only to sleep with him was a good sign the lass was getting used to the notion they were a couple.

  But then he scowled, thinking that true couples were honest and open with each other. But how, exactly, did he tell a woman he was coming to care deeply for that he was living proof the magic was real? He knew the MacKeage, MacBain, and Gregor men had all wrestled with the same dilemma since the first wave of them had arrived in this century nearly forty years ago; on the one hand feeling honor-bound to reveal they were time-travelers or magic-makers, and on the other fearing the truth might be more than a woman raised in an age of science could handle.

  Niall also knew that upon deciding to propose marriage to Mary Sutter, Michael MacBain had confessed to being born in the year 1171, and that a magical storm had brought him here. Not only had Mary fled in confusion to her sister in Virginia—Michael unaware she was pregnant with his child—but she’d gotten in a car accident several months later trying to return to him, and died mere hours after giving birth to their son, Robbie.

  The men born in this century had also had to deal with introducing their women to the magic—men such as Robbie MacBain, Duncan, young Ian, and Hamish MacKeage. Even Greylen’s daughters had been compelled to reveal their family secret to their husbands. The only first-generation highlander who hadn’t wrestled with the problem was Alec; but then, he’d had the questionable good sense to fall in love with the daughter of the biggest magic-maker of them all. But the true magic, as far as Niall was concerned, was that their modern wives loved them despite their fantastical origins and ancient-mindedness.

  Niall went back to grinning at the ceiling, thinking Birch had dealt rather well with a talking tree, although the fact it had just saved her life may have helped. And now that he thought about it, her two interactions with Telos appearing as a tree and an immature eagle might actually work in his favor when it came time to explain the magic.

  Hell, just thinking the bastard’s name made him scowl again. Almost as if to prove Nicholas’s dire prediction of the havoc clashing deities could wreak, last night Telos had—without compunction, apparently, and with ruthless precision—not only made short work of the new god trying to manifest, but had also made damn sure Sebastian and his equally power-hungry cohorts could never call forth another one.

  Dawn had revealed eight dead men—five ruthlessly crushed by giant oaks and three lost at sea—a few others with broken bones, and a good number sporting gashes inflicted by . . . claws. The precision component of the attack was that none of the women were hurt, other than a few minor scratches. And even those likely had been self-inflicted when the women had fled to the southern end of the island and hidden in the crags of huge boulders on the shoreline—almost as though Telos had herded them to safety before unleashing the full brunt of his power.

  A demonic god Nicholas had called the newly manifested entity just before charging into the maelstrom; the mythical warrior’s own ruthless precision with a sword being something Niall had never witnessed before and never cared to again. Hell, half the time he hadn’t been able to tell if Nicholas was fighting against Telos or with him against the small army of demons the new entity had brought with it, since Niall, alongside of Duncan and Alec, was himself rather busy trying to protect the confused and terrified colonists.

  Niall had felt rather unsettled, however, to see the five of them—Dante having joined the fight—using swords while Telos had slaughtered more than his share of demons using two large-caliber, semiautomatic pistols with a seemingly endless supply of bullets. And when Niall had asked Nicholas about it later, the warrior had in turn asked why he was surprised a modern god preferred a modern weapon. He and Dante and Niall, as well as Titus and Mac, were more comfortable using swords simply because that had been the weapon of choice at the time of their births. Nicholas had also gone on to say that Telos would likely continue using modern technology to his advantage and eventually not even bother with guns.

  And wasn’t that just a goddamned wonderful notion.

  Well, Niall thought on a stifled snort as he threaded his fingers through Birch’s hair—if the original colonists had come here wanting to be close to the kind of magic that created inland seas, they’d certainly gotten their wish last night. He only hoped they now understood that just as every coin had two sides, so did the energies that powered the world. And after personally seeing the flip side of Telos, just the idea of the bastard being interested in Birch sent cold chills down Niall’s spine.

  He touched his lips to the top of her head when he felt a wet spot he suspected was drool begin to form on his pajamas—which he’d put on to cover several demon-inflicted scratches—and closed his eyes on a sigh of contentment. Aye, he did admire a woman willing to go after what she wanted. And that tonight Birch had wanted to fall asleep listening to his heartbeat was enough for him . . . for now.

  Chapter Twenty

  Birch woke up lying facedown on a plain old regular mattress, and shot to her hands and knees when she realized the light was angled downward coming through the window instead of sideways—which meant the sun had been up over an hour!

  “Merde. Why didn’t you wake me?” she growled when she heard Niall moving in the kitchen. She scrambled off the bed, grabbed her bathrobe off the floor on her way by, and marched down the hall. “Everyone at home is probably up by now.”

  “I did wake you,” the fully dressed man said as he poured coffee into a pair of mugs. “Three times, in fact. The first time all I got out of you was a grunt, and when I tried again a few minutes later you called me a nasty name.” He stopped pouring and grinned over his shoulder. “I quit trying after you took a swing at me.”

  “I did not,” she said on a gasp. “I’ve never taken a swing at anyone in my life. I am not a violent person.”

  He shrugged and went back to pouring the coffee.

  Birch walked to the window and looked toward the main house as she un-balled her robe and tried to find a sleeve hole. “The back door’s still closed and I don’t see Mimi, so maybe Mom’s not up yet.”

  Niall walked over beside her and took a sip from his mug as he also looked out the window. “Do you usually sleep with your bedroom door closed? I could give ye a boost through your bathroom window, so if anyone’s in the kitchen they won’t—”

  Something clattered onto the hardwood floor and Birch looked down to see the ring the eagle had given her roll to a stop against one of Niall’s socked feet.

  He picked it up before she could, held it up between them and frowned, then arched a brow when she snatched it out of his hand. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, setting his coffee on the windowsill. He ran his fingers through his hair, straightened the collar of his shirt, then clasped his hands behind his back on a deep breath. “Okay, I’m ready. No, wait; are ye not going to get down on one knee at least?”

  “Huh?”

  “Although knowing you’re not much of a traditional wo
man, I do admit to being surprised you brought your own ring. But I suppose ye might be particular about what you’ll be wearing every day, and probably wanted to make sure it fit properly.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Up went that brow again. “Are ye saying you didn’t slip the ring in your pocket before coming here last night with the intention of asking for my hand in marriage?”

  Birch felt her chin drop nearly to her chest, even as she tried to decide if the man was serious or not. He certainly looked serious. No, wait. There; that had to be laughter turning his gorgeous eyes an even deeper shade of green.

  “Nay, what am I thinking,” he said on a groan as he picked up his coffee and headed back to the kitchen area. “You told me the first night ye knocked on my door that you weren’t looking to get married. Or pregnant.”

  “Will you get serious,” she said, rushing after him. “This is the ring the woman in the white car was wearing when she flipped me off while I was being forced off the road. Or if it’s not the exact ring, it’s an identical twin.”

  He frowned down at the ring, then at her. “How can ye possibly know that? I was under the impression you were rather busy at the time trying not to be killed. You don’t recall what the woman looked like, yet ye recognize a ring you must have seen for all of two or three seconds?”

  “Look, I have a thing for jewelry, okay? Being a cop, you know that if you ask ten people to describe the same event, they’ll each mention different details based on their particular lifestyles and interests. And since I’ve always been interested in jewelry, this ring is the one detail that stood out to me,” she said, holding it up between them again. “And I can’t recall what she looked like because her hand was blocking my view of her face. But I can tell you that hand belonged to a woman in her thirties or early forties, that she was wearing a ring exactly like this one, and that the nail polish on her middle finger was a very ugly passion red.”