Spell of the Highlander

by Karen Marie Moning

  It was impossible. It was terrifying. It was the most thrilling thing she’d ever seen.

  Out came those kilt-clad hips, that six-pack abdomen, followed by his sculpted upper body rippling with those wicked-looking crimson-and-black tattoos.

  Last came that sinfully gorgeous dark face, his white teeth flashing in an exultant smile, his whisky eyes glittering with triumph.

  He gave a regal, full-of-himself toss of his head, beaded braids tinkling, as he fully exited the mirror.

  The sensation of spatial distortion eased and the glass went flat silver again, reflecting his tight ass and beautifully muscled back

  Jessi braced herself, trying to console herself with the thought that if she was going to die now, at least she’d gotten one final heaping helping of eye-candy. This man belonged in the RBL Romantica Braw and Bonny Beefcake Farm. Crimeny, this man probably owned the farm or, if not, had stood stud to the mothers of half the other members.

  Though he’d looked massive enough inside the glass, outside it, he seemed even larger. The man had presence, that elusive quality that made some people lodestones, drawing others, even against their will. And he knew it.

  From the looks of him, he’d always known it.

  Arrogant, cocky prick.

  But was he a murderous one? That was the important question.

  “If you’re going to kill me, I’d appre—”

  “Cease speaking, wench. You will bring that sweet ass over here and kiss me now.”

  Jessi gaped, mouth open, midword. Snapped her mouth closed. Opened it again. Her head suddenly itched just beneath the skin, above her metal plate. She rubbed at her scalp. “As if.” She meant to hiss it indignantly, but it came out more of a squeak. Sweet ass? He thought she had a sweet ass? They could form a mutual admiration society of two.

  “Remove that woolen, woman, and show me your breasts.”

  Choking on an inhalation, she sputtered for several seconds. Numerous were the men who’d tried to go there—even she knew she had exceptional breasts—but none quite so obviously and without exerting even an ounce of seductive effort. She clamped her hands over them defensively. “Oh, I so don’t think that’s going to ha—”

  “Cease speaking,” he roared. “You will not speak again unless I tell you to.”

  Jessi drew back like a cobra, scratching her scalp again. He couldn’t be serious!

  He certainly looked like he was.

  After a moment’s stunned silence, in a voice sweet enough to cause cavities in porcelain caps, she said, “You can go fuck yourself, you great big domineering Neanderthal. Wake-up call: Guess what? We’re not in the Stone Age anymore.”

  “As I pointed out earlier, a physical impossibility. And I ken full well what epoch it is. Come here, Jessica St. James. Now.”

  Jessi blinked at him. A sudden thought occurred to her; one that would explain much about this man. “How long have you been inside that mirror?” she demanded.

  A muscle worked in his jaw. “I told you to cease speaking.”

  Despite his persistent asininity, her temper was decreasing as her suspicion that she was correct was increasing. “Well, duh, clearly I’m not going to, so you may as well answer my question.”

  His eyes narrowed, that whisky gaze swept her from head to toe intently. “Eleven hundred and thirty-three years.”

  Whuh. She sucked in an astounded breath. That would place him in—no! The ninth century? No way. A living, breathing, ninth-century man, right here in front of her, somehow trapped in an ancient relic and cast forward eleven centuries?

  Chills rippled across every square inch of her skin. Even the hair on her head felt as if it were trying to rise. “Really?” She nearly squealed the word, she was so delighted. The remnants of her hot temper collapsed into a pile of ash.

  Oh, the things he might be able to tell her! Had the legendary King Cináed mac Ailpin been his contemporary? Had he lived through those mighty battles? Had he seen the unification of the Scots and Picts? Were those incredible wrists cuffs genuine ninth-century work? What were those tattoos, anyway? And those runes on the mirror—was it possible they comprised a previously undiscovered language? Holy shit! For that matter, was it really from the Stone Age? How could that be? Where had it come from? Who’d made it? What was it made of? Now that she’d conceded the reality of his existence, she had a gazillion questions about it. They all collided in her mind, getting tangled up in one another, and she ended up gaping at him in stunned silence.

  It took her several moments to realize that he was regarding her with exactly the same expression.

  As if he couldn’t quite believe she existed.

  There they stood, in Professor Keene’s office, ten feet separating them, each eyeing the other with blatant incredulity and suspicion. Now, that was just silly. What could he possibly find hard to believe about her?

  “Say my name, wench,” he thundered.

  She shook her head, stupefied by all her questions, befuddled by his request. “Cian MacKeltar. Why?”

  He looked mildly appeased. Then suspicious again. “Scratch your nose, woman.”

  “It doesn’t itch.”

  “Stand on one foot.”

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “You stand on one foot.”

  “Bloody hell,” he breathed, as if to himself, “it can’t be.” He gave her that intent scan from head to toe again, seemed to hold a brief but heated inner discourse with himself, then nodded toward the desk. “Go sit in that chair.”

  “I don’t feel like it. I’m perfectly happy standing right where I am, thank you.”

  “Moisten your lips?” His gaze fixed on her mouth.

  It took considerable effort not to moisten them while he was looking at them like that. It made her fixate on his own incredibly kissable mouth, made her want to not only wet her lips but pucker up and hike her “sweet ass” right over there. Maybe even show him her breasts, after all. She was appalled at the indiscriminatory nature of hormones—how awful that it was possible to actively dislike a man, have nothing in common with him, including not even existing in the same world—and still want to tear his clothes off and have hot animal sex with him.

  Stoically, she resisted. “What’s your deal?”

  “Christ,” he whispered slowly, “I’ve been in there for so long, I’ve lost it.”

  “‘Lost’ what? Oh, you mean your mind. Yeah, well, not going to argue with you there.”

  He stared at her a long moment in silence, frowning. Then his brow eased and his eyes cleared. “Nay, my mind is still as extraordinarily superior as it has always been. No matter. There’s more than one way to skin a cat.”

  God, he was arrogant. She marveled at the sheer, unmitigated cockiness of the man. Had all ninth-century men been that way?

  In retrospect, it occurred to her that she should have seen it coming.

  She was, after all, a fan of history, a studier of mankind, a ponderer of ancient civilizations. She knew what life had been like a thousand years ago for women.

  Men had been Men.

  And women had been Property.

  And somehow, she still managed to be utterly unprepared when he ducked that sexy, dark head of his and charged her.

  “Oomph!” Jessi grunted, as his shoulder made contact with her stomach.

  Her feet left the ground, her world tilted precariously, and the next thing she knew, she was hanging upside down over his shoulder.

  One of his muscle-bound arms banded her waist, pinning her to his shoulder. The other hand splayed firmly on her bottom.

  She parted her lips and was just about to let loose a screech that would do a banshee proud, when his hand moved.

  Possessively. Intimately. Dipping right between her legs.

  He pressed strong fingers against the opening of her vulva through her jeans, his thumb expertly finding her clitoris at the same time.

  Fire exploded red-hot inside her. Her mouth, open on an intended shriek of rage, released a soft,
stunned exhalation of air instead.

  His big warm hand rested there a moment, applying a firm but gentle, relentless pressure. Enough to bring every nerve ending brutally to life and awaken an aching hunger deep within her womb.

  He said nothing. She said nothing, either, mostly because, at the moment, all she could think of to say was: Excuse me, but your hand seems to have slipped between my legs and if you’ll move it just the tiniest bit, I bet I could come.

  His hand was gone.

  It returned, lower, banding her to him by the backs of her knees.

  Reason returned also, accompanied by fury. The sad part was that what he’d just done had made her so instantly, incredibly horny that she wasn’t sure if she was more furious at him for doing it in the first place, or for stopping when he had.

  And that made her even more furious still.

  “Put me down,” she managed to hiss. So maybe it came out a bit more breathy than sibilant, but it was the best she could do upside down with her boobs in her face.

  “Haud yer wheesht, woman.”

  “Hold my what?”

  “It means ‘hush,’ Jessica. Just hush. Would it kill you to hush?”

  “Probably,” she snapped. “Put me down. I can walk.”

  “Nay. I’ve no desire for you to be master of your destiny in any manner, however small. You are too unpredictable.”

  “I’m unpredictable?”

  “Aye.”

  She was speechless a moment. Then she pinched his butt, hard.

  “Ow!” He smacked her bottom.

  “Ow!” she yelped.

  “Behave,” he growled. “Tit for tat, lass. Remember that.” The arm banding her waist relaxed, he repositioned her on his shoulder, then tightened his grip again, making her realize she probably couldn’t get off his shoulder if her life depended on it. That single muscle-bound arm was as unyielding as reinforced steel.

  The abruptness with which he shifted her jostled her backpack, still looped over her shoulders. Crammed with purse, laptop, assorted notepads, pens, pencils, and a four-inch-thick Ancient Civilizations textbook, it yielded to gravity, slid down, and thumped her in the back of the head.

  Hard.

  “Ow!” she yelled again. “Shit! Put me down this instant, you brute!”

  “Unbelievable,” she thought she heard him mutter.

  “Oh—you think so?” she snarled. “I’m the one flung over a primate’s shoulder. You’re the primate. I’m the one entitled to be saying ‘unbelievable.’ Not you.”

  “Unbelievable,” he muttered again. He spun about so quickly that she nearly puked the five extra cups of coffee she hadn’t really wanted but had drunk anyway in the café earlier, all over that magnificent butt she’d just pinched, and yes, like his arm, the man had buns of steel.

  Plucking up the massive mirror, he tucked it beneath the arm he’d freed by shifting her, and turned for the door. Woman on one side, artifact on the other. Not even straining.

  And she knew how heavy that mirror was. The two deliverymen had wrestled with its weight.

  Stalking out into the corridor, he demanded, “Which way?”

  She raised her head for as much clearance as she could gain with thirty-eight pounds of backpack—she’d weighed it once so she could factor the toting about of it into her daily caloric intake; it had earned her two Krispy Kremes every other morning—resting against her skull. “Why should I tell you?” she said snottily.

  He bit her hip.

  “Left,” she gritted.

  He turned left and took off at a trot.

  The strain on her neck was too much. She put her head back down. Her breasts were in her face and, as she bounced against his back with each step he took, her backpack thunked her steadily in the back of the head. At least her face was cushioned against the repeated blows. She wasn’t getting her nose hammered rat-a-tat-tat into his spine. Thank God for small blessings. Or two large ones, as the case may be.

  “Where are you taking me?” she mumbled against her sweater.

  “I am taking you to whatever manner of transportation you have. You are then taking us to procure suitable lodgings.”

  “I am?”

  “If you wish to live.”

  She wished. She mumbled directions to the lot in which her car was parked.

  “You’re mumbling, lass.”

  She mumbled again.

  “What was that?”

  She mumbled again.

  “Did you just say something about your breasts?” he said warily. A pause, then a reverent “Och, Christ, they’re in your face!” He stopped so abruptly her backpack thumped the back of her head in double time: a soft whump followed by a solid thwack, dazing her.

  When she felt his chest shaking, it took her a few moments to identify the motion. He was laughing. The rat-bastard was laughing.

  “I so hate you,” she told her breasts. Meaning not them, of course, but him.

  As he continued to laugh, the fight went out of her, up in a puff of smoke. She was tired, she was freaked out, and she really just wanted to walk on her own two feet. “Would you please put me down?” she said plaintively.

  She suspected he must have felt the diminishing of tension in her muscles, read her body language, and knew, mentally, she’d capitulated.

  His laughter subsided. He bent and gently deposited her on her feet. His scotch-gold gaze glittered with amusement and sexual heat he made no effort to disguise. “Better?” He cupped her chin with one big hand, thumb brushing her lower lip.

  She twisted her face away. “Better. Come on. Let’s get out of here before someone sees us with the professor’s—”

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Jess?” Mark Troudeau barked sharply behind her.

  Jessi turned disbelievingly. What—had the mere thought been a self-fulfilling prophecy?

  Mark’s office was a few hundred feet down the hall from Professor Keene’s. When she’d passed it earlier, there’d been no lights on. Didn’t he have a life? What was he doing here so late?

  Was nothing going to go right anymore?

  Great, just great. This was just what she needed: Mark running off to tattle to anyone who would listen that not only had she crossed police lines and gone into the professor’s office, but she’d made off with a priceless, mysterious artifact. If the police did the least bit of checking into things, they would discover that what she’d taken was what the (murdered) deliverymen had delivered to the (murdered) professor.

  And she would be oh-so-incriminatingly on the lam, nowhere to be found, last seen in the company of a tall, dark, kilt-clad stranger, “stealing” the fabulously expensive black-market relic that three people had already died over.

  Without getting the slightest chance to tell her side of the story and point out that somebody’d tried to murder her too.

  As if anyone would believe her anyway.

  Shit, shit, shit. When all this was over, she really wanted to be able to finish her degree at the university where she’d begun it, not via correspondence courses from jail. That kind of stuff just didn’t look good on a resumé.

  “Oh, for crying out loud, Mark, it’s two in the morning! What are you doing here?”

  “I believe I just asked you that.” Close-set brown eyes behind rimless glasses darted from her to the half-naked, towering man toting the mirror, and back to her again.

  What could she say? Dredging her mind, she drew an empty net. Try though she might, she couldn’t think of a single excuse for her current circumstances—convincing or otherwise. She would have been grateful even for an absurd one, but apparently her brain was done for the day.

  As she stood there, staring at him like the biggest idiot, Cian MacKeltar took care of the problem.

  “You will go back in that room from whence you came, and remain in there, silent, until well after we’ve gone. Now.”

  Mark turned and cantered dutifully back down the hall toward his office without so much as a neigh of protes
t.

  Wow. Jessi blinked up at Cian MacKeltar.

  “Hmm,” he murmured softly, staring after the retreating grad student. “Mayhap ’tis only her.”

  “‘Her’? Do you mean me? What me?” Jessi said expectantly.

  “Puny little man,” he scoffed, as Mark obediently closed the door.

  Was that it? Was that why Mark had slunk off—because he was puny and Cian MacKeltar was so big and forbidding?

  She tipped her head back, eyeing him. At six and a half feet, and a good two-hundred-plus pounds of pure muscle, he dwarfed people. With those wild dark braids tangling halfway down his back and those wicked red-and-black tattoos licking across his chest, up to the edge of that whisker-shadowed jaw, he looked downright primeval: an ancient, deadly warrior stalking the halls of the university. She supposed his mere appearance might have been enough to make Mark decide he clearly wouldn’t be winning any arguments with this man, so there was little point in beginning any.

  How nice it must be to have such an impact on the world! If reincarnation was the way of things, she wanted to come back as Cian MacKeltar. She’d like to be the asshole man, for a change, rather than subject to asshole men’s dictates. And if she were going to be the asshole man, she’d like to do it up right and be the biggest and baddest.

  “That was amazing,” she said fervently. “He is such a pain in the butt. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wished I could get him to just go away like that. Like he had no choice but to obey me, or something.”

  “Come, Jessica.” Cian MacKeltar closed a hand around her upper arm. “We must away ourselves.”

  They awayed.

  8

  An hour later they pulled under the canopy of the Sheraton in downtown Chicago.

  Jessi had wanted to go home and get a few things, but Cian MacKeltar had immediately, vehemently vetoed that.

  The next assassin could already be awaiting you there, woman, he’d said, and she’d shivered. How creepy to think someone might even now be lurking in her dark apartment, waiting to kill her. How odd to think she couldn’t go home. Maybe not for a long, long time.