"Aye, Katie."
"There's a shortage of jobs in New Zealand?"
"There's a shortage of everything in New Zealand."
Why doesn't the reply strike me as unusual? Apparently, the cultures in New Zealand and Great Britain are equally stagnant. Well, I'm not ready to give up on socialism just yet. After all, they say no pain, no gain. Living with Sticky Fingers sure should rack up my pain points. Then there's all the vacation pain…Any day now, I'm going to land a huge prize. Okay, Life. I'm waiting. The kharma train needs to rev up and handle paybacks.
"And you?" He leaned back in shadow, sprawled out easy like any typical male.
"I'm just learning a skill. Apprenticing." I popped the soft salty bite of bread into my mouth.
Talk about divine. There's nothing like steamy scones. Especially Auntie Iona's.
"Is there a demand for swords?" he asked.
Not that same old question implying wasted time in my job of choice. "It's up to an artisan to create and perpetuate the demand." I shrugged. "That's the way of art."
He nodded, reaching for his coffee, his blue gaze cutting through the dusky darkness.
The cynic. "The popularity of movies like Lord of The Rings has done wonders for the demand for all sorts of swords. I get at least one special order each month." I have value. Does that need to be said? Again. And again?
Murdo broke his scone in two pieces and gnashed a large bite out of one.
Is he changing the subject? Or, perhaps, he gnawed at my point. Nobody believed art served a purpose. What is wrong with people? Art is the most-treasured expression of an individual's deepest desires. Rather, symbols to the end.
"We all must rise to the call," he suddenly said.
Have I heard him correctly? Is this a man who views artistry as a calling too? No way.
The front door swung open.
A blast of bright light outlined the standard British man's lanky slim form.
An oddly familiar silhouette.
The door eased shut, blocking the glaring light outside.
Cousin Sticky Fingers. Not him. Talk about ending a vacation on a sour note. And the maraschino cherry was just plopping down onto my ice-cream sundae. No graceful delivery. The universe could have just dumped a slimy kidney bean atop the whipped cream. No reason to waste the damned cherry. No more bangers and beans, universe. What happened to Uncle John?
Cousin John walked through the pub, assessing the contents of the room. He stepped right, away from me, toward the bar.
Thank heavens, he hasn't spotted me. Uncle John had to be on his way.
"What is it, Katie?" Murdo demanded with a pinched brow and leaned over the table to meet my gaze as far as he could without rising.
The look of concern on his face was priceless. "Just a thought." I ignored Cousin John for now. Spending time with Murdo until I had to meet John was better than inviting Sticky Fingers over to join us. The thought alone could set off another headache.
Murdo's gaze scanned the room only to fixate back on me. "Who's here?"
How could he know one of me acquaintances had entered? "I said everything's fine."
He cocked his chin and locked a tell-me-now stare on me.
My skin prickled with a combination of chilly awareness and sense of security.
A girl could live a lifetime and never tire of that demanding mask. For some reason, I feel incredibly safe. Oh yes. He can come home with me. Finding out what Murdo wanted from me just might be fun. Rather, life-altering. "Just my cousin. Uncle John must be nearby."
Chapter 10
Cousin John? The animal will pay. Heart thundering for compensation for the sexual assault of his fiancée, I struggled to focus on her, while dropping my hands to grip the wooden bench, and squeezed the solid hardness until my fingers numbed.
Until the urge to kill the imbecile in a public place passed. Such an act would result in inescapable trouble in the twenty-first century. Unwise when Katie needed me.
Katie's eyes glinted.
Undoubtedly detecting a shift in my body language. I have to mask my rage.
"We can tell him we're here," she offered. "Leave now. It'll get me to the shop sooner. Then I can repair your sword, and you can be on your way. I'm sure you're tired of the delay."
She sat completely oblivious to my duty. Never will I abandon her. I'd only take her to a safer place. A safer time. And Black Liam's business card was the only link a Brother had to Truth in this century. I ripped my fingers from the bench and dug through my sporran.
For reassurance. The flat smooth paper is there. And the telephone number. Good. Because if I didn't manage to straighten the sword…We'll be trapped in this century. With her relatives. People who won't appreciate the death of Cousin John.
"What's wrong, Murdo?"
I must stop worrying. Vengeance and murder are merely uncontrolled passion. I needed to gain control of this need for vengeance. Passion, well, passion wasn't a bad thing. Katie's brow furrowed beyond forgiveness though. By the stars, I'd overtaxed her. "All's well, Katie." I'd drowned my emotions in my coffee. I reached for the warm consoling cup.
So went the way of a man's assignment. I have to be stronger. She required a sane guardian. Alert and reliable. I'd watch Cousin John, repair my sword for the man's soon-to-come punishment, and await the right moment to obtain revenge. Justice will reign in the twenty-first century.
****
What just occurred? Murdo stopped squirming across the wooden table like he'd fighting something. Holding something back? Maybe it's the arrival of my ride? Or what if Murdo's actually waiting to murder me with that bent broadsword? No. Impossible. Pam felt the man completely trustworthy. And anal-retentive Pam doesn't make mistakes.
Raising the cup to his lips, Murdo took a long drink, his gaze transfixed upon my nose. His Adam's apple bobbed beneath the cup as he placed the cup back upon the accompanying small round plate. He then fanned his fingers out on the dark shining table's wood.
Just what is he doing?
He shot me a stern look. "Drink up, Katie. 'Tis time to go. I'll not eat with him. You'd best eat your scone."
Him? Sticky Fingers? I could only return his stare. "What?"
"This isn't the place to speak of it. Eat up like a good lass." He leaned back into the seat and waited, his chest rising and falling in the shadows beyond the reach of the low lamps.
How could he dislike John? They hadn't even met. Oh well. I washed down the dry scone with warm coffee and watched Murdo. "Why don't you like John?"
"I never said that." Murdo leaned forward, his nose and chin penetrating the veil of amber light.
Calm. Collected. I like this kind of man.
He braced his elbows against the table, carefully reaching, gently curling his warm fingers around mine.
Oh. My. God. So damned warm and tingly.
Gooseflesh trailed up that arm to send a chilling wave through my core.
A message. To pay attention. Is Murdo jealous? Not a bad thing since Jennifer is out of the picture.
He pulled my palm toward him and gently patted the back of my hand. "I don't care for the look on your face when you speak of him."
Scratch jealousy. Murdo is just protective. Very nice. Damn, how I like him holding my hand. But is he completely trustworthy? Don the iron mask, Katie Innis. How many times had Mother chanted that before?
A firm warm pressure constricted my hand.
Murdo's hand consuming mine. Even nicer.
"Will you walk with me, Katie?"
Where else am I going to find a protective gorgeous man who understands the drive behind an artist? And he wore a kilt!
Murdo stood, tugging my hand across the hard bench, drawing me to my feet outside the amber dome of light. I left cash and a tip on the table, and we left, Murdo towing everything. How could he manage so much weight? Killing me would be effortless if the man was a serial killer, He won't even break a sweat.
Maybe my hangover made me a bit hast
y in judgment. Taking him home might not be wise. But Pam had said Murdo would take care of me. It couldn't hurt to give him a chance to prove himself a good guy. Could it?
His firm grip led me through the shadows toward the door.
You're nuts, Katie. He's a stranger. Why are you holding his hand?
He swung the door wide and twisted aside, dropping my hand to allow my passage through the doorway.
The sunlit corridor blinded me.
Too many people stood about. He can't kill me. Yet. And Cousin John isn't about to lose me to another man. Hell. I'd just have to mention my uncle. A force to reckon with. "Maybe Uncle John is hanging out where we left the rental car, waiting for me."
Murdo didn't argue. We headed for the busy Hutzpah counter.
Please be here. I scanned the huddles and lines of travelers among the shops and check-in counters.
No Uncle John. The reprieve isn't happening. Even worse. Sticky Fingers is my ride. He probably planned a stop out in the middle of nowhere. For whatever. What a life. I have a stranger and a creep. Talk about a demented world. Taking Murdo began to solve more than one problem though. He would step in to take care of my cousin. Hopefully. Save me from the jackass. I have to believe in Pam now. Murdo will take care of me. At least, until Uncle John materialized. Killing Cousin John is definitely out of the question. So, Murdo would lend a hand at keeping me out of prison. He had to.
"Do you see your uncle here?" Murdo scanned the bustling area.
Only tweed jackets, berets, and two-piece floral dresses decorated the airport as far as one searched. "No. I suppose we're forced to ride with my cousin."
"Katie," Cousin John called from behind me.
Joy. Time to face Sticky Fingers. I inhaled deeply and turned.
Murdo assumed a protective stance at my side.
Good to see. Plan B is a good plan.
A perturbed Sticky Fingers clipped in stride toward us.
Love the budding scowl. Yeah. Hate everything. Bastard. No matter the ease in John's faded blue jeans and blue polo shirt, nothing felt as rewarding as seeing the irritation in his squared brown eyebrows.
"And what are you up to?" Cousin John sneered.
Typical condescension. "I'm waiting for Uncle John. But I see you've arrived."
"I've come to see you home." Sticky Finger's scowl turned to Murdo and scoured him up and down. "And what have you found on your travels?"
Dolt. "Must you be rude every second of the day, John?" Why ask? His rudeness is a given.
Sticky Fingers face tore into an enormous frown. He glowered at me. "You should have called to tell mother you were bringing a man home."
"I'm not bringing a man home. I'm going to repair Murdo McEwen's sword."
"Sword?" John scanned Murdo's waistline as if the sword in question isn't actually metal.
"John Innis, you're a cretin. Mind your own business, anyway."
Sticky Fingers perched his hands upon his hips. "I'll be minding yours too, lassie. This one might be more than you bargained for. Especially a nuisance to my parents."
That is the pot calling the kettle black. More like a stage-four runaway cancer. But the jerk would refuse to drive me home. Now isn't the time to argue. "Where's the car?"
In minutes, we piled into the small brown clown box a man of Cousin John's limited income could afford, both men sitting in the front. Thank goodness, Scotsmen preferred hanging out the window, waving at acquaintances. The backseat was shorn of Sticky Finger's scrutiny except for what was unavoidable floundering in the annoying rearview mirror. Limited, the range of viewing. But, if he wanted to keep an eye on me, he'd just have to lean and twist. Work for it.
The car rumbled to life, and we headed to Fort William. Cousin John's eyes locked on me in the rearview mirror.
"And you are Murdo McEwen?" John finally asked without taking his gaze off me.
How can the miscreant drive without watching the road?
"Aye." Murdo didn't seem annoyed with the question.
Cousin John slid his gaze to the passenger seat. "You hail from the Highlands?"
"New Zealand."
"Och! I've wanted to move there for three years."
At long last, exceptional news. Such a small price for tranquility. Talk about debt worth carrying in funding John's way to New Zealand if I'd known.
Murdo didn't reply.
"Where's Uncle John?" I interrupted John's interrogation.
Sticky Finger's brown gaze locked back upon mine in the mirror. "He had an emergency in the Orkneys. He's been gone for two days."
"What kind of emergency?" I ignored his ogling and looked out the window at the busy city street.
"Your great uncle is ill."
Well, I haven't met any great uncles in the Orkneys. Is my dear sweet cousin lying? What if John is the insane killer instead of Murdo? That seemed more likely. "Is Aunt Iona away too?"
"Aye."
Alone with Sticky Fingers. Murdo had good timing.
****
When the car rolled to a stop in front of the Tudor-style Innis house, my sigh of relief was more for arriving in one piece than the beauty of Fort William's surrounding craggy peaks. The two-story's dark beams, radiating from above the central doorway toward the dark gray slate roof, always welcomed me home. With sunny hope. I rarely lingered in Fort William long when I can come home to Auntie Iona. And my bedroom.
Murdo shot me a desperate look over his shoulder.
So, he can't stomach the gabby narcissistic John either? I pulled the door handle.
The two-hour trip mostly passed in silent reverie of Sticky Finger's favorite radio stations or his endless self-exaltation of his prowess in the annual Ben Nevin foot race over the local high peak. No problem for me. I stared out the window at the passing craggy Highlands. Especially, the last leg along the wooded street to Uncle John's isolated house. Yet, Murdo was trapped in the front seat with Sticky Fingers. When Cousin wasn't baying along with the music, he drilled Murdo for details of New Zealand. The fool is actually smitten with Murdo. Now, whether or not Murdo reciprocated the affection is another story, an answer I can't wait to discover. I swung my feet into the shifting gravel of the driveway.
Perhaps, males experienced testosterone camaraderie with Sticky Fingers. Maybe I'm the only human who despised John.
Murdo unfolded across the top of the car, sporting a blank mask.
The man looked brain-dead. Poor baby. That's what happened when you talked to Cousin John.
Sticky Fingers opened the squeaking trunk. Murdo joined him. I circled back to grab my suitcase and possibly salvage Murdo's sanity. After all, I didn't want Murdo to wander off before Uncle John returned home.
"There's a football match on in an hour. You'll want to see it." Sticky Fingers informed Murdo.
Murdo reached for a suitcase.
Sticky Fingers swung the large one to the gravel as if he wanted to prove his strength. "Katie can make us something to eat. Bring us some beers."
Excuse me? Help yourself, pig. "I'm going to sleep. Get it yourself."
Sticky Fingers grinned. "Yank lasses are so accommodating. She's in training to stay in Scotland."
Annoying ass. Like I'd warm up to that crap.
Murdo glowered at Sticky Fingers. Cousin John didn't notice, grinning at me.
My skin crawled.
The bastard. Wise girls strapped on a sword.
Sticky Fingers hoisted my tapestry suitcase off the ground. "Let's go, then." Sticky Fingers made for the door.
Murdo grabbed my backpack.
Whatever. I just needed to lock myself behind my bedroom door. Away from the bastard.
Murdo approached, extending a palm.
What's that for? I stared at the hand.
Accepting the offering would only give Sticky Fingers more to build upon. Cousin John didn't need to think I had any sexual ideas either. But maybe I could use this to keep John's behavior in check until Uncle John arrived home. Murdo could scare
John into good behavior. What the heck. I took the warm hand.
Murdo smiled brighter than the three o'clock sun.
We waited while Sticky Fingers fumbled with keys at the dark brown door.
He finally opened it. "Here." He turned, glimpsing our handhold, and winced. His half-cocked smile curled into one of his cheeks.
Why shouldn’t his smile mirror his insistent obvious in the woody he hid in his pants?
"I thought you weren't bringing a man home?" John snarled.
Hearing reason from those disgusting lips was a big slap in the face. "Mind your own business." What else could I say? I'm not really certain what I'm doing anymore anyway.
The door whined, falling further inward.
If only John would just disappear with the sound. I stepped into the central wide hallway extending down to the kitchen and garage door.
The familiar hall was lined with doors on the left and flanked by an ascending banister's wooden rails on the right. I headed straight for the staircase, tugging Murdo across the gray slate floor. "Come on, Murdo. You'll stay in the upstairs guest room."
Sticky Fingers growled.
The presumptuous jerk deserved to be upset. White walls and family photos greeted us with each step of our ascent.
Murdo studied the dark ceiling joists.
At the uppermost step, we turned down the second floor. The lack of window's made the hallway dark. But his room lay first on the right. I twisted the cold brass doorknob and shoved. The door swung inward, revealing white walls and a double bed draped in blue. "Will this be fine?"
Murdo studied the room. "'Tis perfect."
Oh, Iona would keep him around as long as he talked like that. "Auntie Iona will be pleased to hear that." I shot him a smile.
A squeak preceded Sticky Fingers turning the corner with my luggage. He stopped behind Murdo's shoulder. "I'm hungry, Katie."
Moron. But my dream is more important than dealing out a black eye or decapitation. If I didn't know better, one day he'd be the one in prison. "I'll take my backpack." I waited for Murdo to hand it over.
Sticky Fingers stepped across the hall to my door, placing the suitcase on the floor. He'd yet to enter my room since my arrival as if some invisible force kept him out of what appeared to be my sacred chamber. Probably his father. It/s good to see he still won't attempt desecrating my space with his father away.
10 Timeless Heroes; A Time Travel Romance Boxed Set Page 90