Highland Shifter

by Catherine Bybee

  He awarded her with a wink and heat surged to her face. They really didn’t have room in all this for flirtation. So what if he wasn’t married. He still lived in a completely different time. A time he wanted to return to. Not that he didn’t appear completely comfortable sprawled on Mrs. Dawson’s sofa sipping coffee as if he had nothing better to do. There was nothing about his demeanor screaming anxiety. He didn’t even seem prepared to defend what Helen was telling Mrs. Dawson.

  “I think Mrs. Dawson believes in magic, lass.”

  After a half an hour he finally spoke. His tone was a little condescending, and his assumption of Mrs. Dawson’s beliefs niggled at Helen’s nerves.

  Simon didn’t know Mrs. Dawson. Did he?

  “We’ve been here for less than an hour and suddenly you’re the authority on Mrs. Dawson’s emotions?”

  Simon sat forward. “Aye.”

  Talk about arrogant. Before Helen could protest, Simon directed his next words to Mrs. Dawson. “This lovely woman believes in magic because she’s experienced it herself. Haven’t you?”

  “There have been a few things Mr. Dawson and I have seen.”

  “What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t want to scare you, dear. When an old woman starts talking about magic, men in white coats tend to arrive late at night and take her away.”

  “I would never have done that.”

  “Maybe not you, but others.” Mrs. Dawson leaned forward and patted Helen’s hand. Her weathered, old hand held on as she continued. “The night we found the book, don’t you remember the wind kicking up inside the house?”

  “A window blew open.”

  Mrs. Dawson actually rolled her eyes and patted Helen’s hand again. “Go look at my windows.”

  Helen’s gaze shifted to the wall of windows lining the room.

  “Go.”

  At the window, Helen touched the modern locks on the double paned glass. “Are the windows in the study the same?”

  “Mr. Dawson insisted on replacing everyone in the house to cut our electric bill.”

  “Then one must have been opened that night.”

  “Helen, I’m an old woman. I wear sweaters when it’s 90 degrees. Do you really think I’d leave a window open?”

  Helen glanced beyond the glass to the beautiful garden outside. Mrs. Dawson’s long-stemmed variegated roses were starting to bloom and a deep orange hummingbird stopped at her feeder for a snack. “So what caused the window to open?”

  “I’m not certain. My guess is Simon could answer that question.”

  Turning on her heel, Helen met Simon’s gaze. He smiled with one corner of his mouth.

  “Well?”

  “Magic, lass. There are forces at work here driving the events of the past days. Our lives are intertwined, somehow, and it will be up to us to determine why.”

  “I thought we were just trying to figure out how to get you home.”

  “That, too. There is a reason I’m here. A reason you were looking for me to begin with.”

  “I was curious about how a child could disappear without a trace.”

  “’Tis more than that.”

  “Nope, that was it,” she lied. She didn’t care for how Simon assumed he knew everything going on inside her head. Didn’t want him thinking he could get inside her head.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yep.” Helen looked away.

  Mrs. Dawson placed her hands on the edge of her chair and started pulling herself to her feet.

  Simon jumped to his and assisted her. “Allow me.”

  Mrs. Dawson took his arm and didn’t let go. “If there are any answers here, they’ll be in the study. Mr. Dawson collected tomes of work regarding folklore and magic. We were fascinated by the unknown.”

  Helen could only watch as Simon listened intently to Mrs. Dawson. Trailing behind the two of them, she was awarded with Simon’s broad back, narrow waist, and perfect ass. An ass she’d seen completely…along with his other fine attributes. He might be arrogant, but as Mrs. Dawson intuitively stated, he was a hottie.

  Once inside Mr. Dawson’s study, Helen was once again captivated by the sheer enormity of the room.

  The architecture here was filled with floor to ceiling bookshelves, overflowing with books dating back hundreds of years. Thick plush carpets divided the dark mahogany floors. The fireplace filled one wall. Candles stood on top of large decorative spindles making it possible for a reader to finish a novel if the electricity failed. Deep leather chairs dotted the room, adding to the masculine pulse of the space.

  Even with the floor to ceiling windows allowing in natural light, the room felt dark. Mr. Dawson collected books and artifacts from libraries throughout Europe and Scotland.

  “If there is any hope of finding answers in a book, it will be in here,” Mrs. Dawson announced.

  Once Mrs. Dawson was safely deposited in a comfortable chair, Simon stepped up to the first bookcase and ran his hand along the spines stacked on it.

  “How did you find the book you lost, lass?”

  The sheer number of books made the task of finding a clue overwhelming.

  “One night Mrs. Dawson and I were talking about those candlesticks, and I decided to see if there was any reference to them in here. As I started picking through the books, I kept thinking of the picture I had of you as a child.”

  “Then the book found her,” Mrs. Dawson added.

  “Ahh, I see.” Simon removed a book from the shelf and carefully opened it for inspection. He sighed and replaced it. “This may take more years than I’d care to spend in this century.”

  “It is a mountain of books. My husband never could open every one, let alone read them.”

  Helen watched as Simon touched a few more. “Do you have any idea what you’re looking for?”

  “Of course.”

  So cocky.

  “What?”

  “Answers.”

  Helen grunted. He was winging it.

  Mrs. Dawson laughed. “I’ll tell Mavis to prepare dinner. I think you’ll both be here for a while.”

  Simon quickly came to the woman’s side to help her stand. “Would you mind helping me with something first?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  Poor Mrs. Dawson was already putty in this man’s hands. His Scottish accent and easy charm probably opened many doors.

  Once Mrs. Dawson was on her feet, Simon stepped around her and closed the study door.

  Helen mutely stood and watched him walk around the room, rearranging several unlit candles.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You’ll see. There’s no guarantee this will work, but it’s worth trying.”

  “What’s worth trying?”

  Simon apparently finished what he was doing and stepped up to Helen and Mrs. Dawson. “I told you most people don’t believe in magic because they can’t tap into it.”

  “Right.” Where was he going with this?

  “I’m not one of those people.”

  Before Helen could utter her next question, Simon waved his hand in the air and the wicks to the candles lit. Flames topped every candle in the room.

  No wonder the man had a cocky air about him. He had a right. Helen stared in fascination at the flickering flames. “How did you…? Never mind,”

  Simon smiled and reached both his hands out. “Take hold of each other,” he directed.

  Although she felt silly standing in a small circle holding hands, Helen didn’t break away. Curiosity over what would happen next ruled her every breath.

  Simon’s hand grew warm in hers. When he started to speak, it felt as if it were on fire.

  “In this day and in this hour, we call upon the Ancients’ power.”

  Helen’s hair brushed against her shoulders as a warm breeze drifted around the room. With wide eyes, Mrs. Dawson’s lips split into a huge grin.

  “My windows are closed,” she said, laughing. “And it’s cold outside.”

&
nbsp; Helen slid a glance to the window anyway.

  “Deliver the books to help us see, what will be our destiny. If the Ancients will it so, give us a sign so we will know.”

  The singsong rhyme drifted from Simon’s mouth and lifted high. Helen wasn’t sure what was supposed to happen, if anything. But when books flew off the shelves and stacked themselves on Mr. Dawson’s desk, all she could do was clutch Simon’s hand and gasp.

  The wind died down and the candles flickered out.

  On the old desk sat several piles of books, five to ten deep.

  “How did you…?”

  Simon sought her gaze and said. “I’m a Druid, love. As are you and Mrs. Dawson.”

  “Druid?”

  “Aye. I’ll explain while we’re doing our homework. Seems the Ancients aren’t in a hurry for us to find the answers.”

  “You realize I have no idea what you’re talking about, right?”

  Mrs. Dawson laughed and let go of her hand. “I’ll have Mavis prepare dinner.”

  Chapter Seven

  Three hours later, they were no closer to finding an answer than when they’d called the Ancients for help.

  Simon had explained his heritage, what he believed was Helen’s and Mrs. Dawson’s heritage, too, although he knew Helen doubted his words. In fact, as the day had drawn on, she’d become more and more distant.

  Mrs. Dawson retired for the evening, suggesting they stay as long as they desired. She’d even had her helper prepare rooms for them to use if they chose to stay the night.

  At Helen’s suggestion, they’d piled the books into categories. Only those categories were vaguely similar. There were books on myths, folklore, and magic. There were many directed at Celtic lore while others spoke of ancient witches.

  The Ancients may have narrowed their search, but the common thread eluded them.

  “This is useless.” Helen closed the book in her hand with frustration.

  “The answers are here.”

  “Just because a bunch of books fly off the shelf, doesn’t mean they have the answers.”

  Simon sat back and watched Helen’s temper surface. “You’ve seen books fly off the shelf before, then?”

  “Don’t be a smartass.”

  “The answer is here, love, trust me.”

  Helen pushed out of her chair. “Trust you? I don’t even know you. And why do you insist on calling me love or lass? I’m neither.”

  Where had this angry outburst come from?

  “I don’t mean any harm by using these endearments. They’re meant to put you at ease.”

  “Yeah, well, they’re not working. Besides, I think you should actually know someone before you start using endearments. It’s kinda like a man in a black van hanging outside an elementary school saying, ‘Come here, darling little girl, and pet my puppy.’”

  She paced the room while she spoke.

  Her words penetrated his mind and tightened his jaw. “I’m not an evil man hiding behind a small animal.”

  “I don’t know what kind of man you are. Sure, we’ve been on some kind of cosmic rollercoaster together, but I don’t know you from Adam.” Her voice was elevating; her pace became more frantic. She reminded him of a caged animal needing to run.

  “What has you upset, lo—” Simon stopped his words, not wanting to push her further.

  “You know, when you shoot flames from your fingertips, you might give a little warning next time. That’s some startling crap. Mrs. Dawson’s not a young girl. She could have had a heart attack when these books started flying around.”

  Ahh, so that was the problem. The lass was worried about her friend.

  Simon stood and walked to her side. “Mrs. Dawson is a strong woman.”

  Instead of backing away, she placed her hands on her hips and glared. “You’re so arrogant. You’ve been in my life for what? Ten minutes? Mrs. Dawson ended up in the hospital last fall with angina. Her heart can’t take a whole lot of stress. Your little stunt today could have killed her.”

  A trickle of guilt slid over his skin. Mrs. Dawson may be stronger than Helen believed, but she was elderly, and he’d do well to remember that.

  “I’m deeply sorry for causing you worry, lass.”

  Her chin shot up and surprise lit her eyes. “Good. You should be.”

  Simon stepped closer and felt the heat of her skin. She smelled of the strawberry shampoo she used in her hair. Helen’s hands slid from her hips and fell to the side.

  “’Tis time we clear up a few things in your lovely head about me.”

  He stepped closer, and Helen, the wise girl, took a step back until her bottom met the edge of the desk. She reached behind her to steady herself and keep from falling.

  Like a predatory cat cornering his prey, Simon towered over Helen, watching her body twitch and her eyes travel over his.

  “Really?” Her voice wavered. After clearing her throat, she asked. “Like what?”

  Simon licked his lips and glanced at hers. “I’m not evil.”

  “Uhm….” Her eyes never left his mouth while he spoke.

  “And I’d never lure a child into my presence.”

  Simon leaned into her, their thighs touched and Helen’s breathing started to quicken. He placed one hand on the table beside her, leaving her very little room to escape should she want to. From the hunger in her gaze, and the heat of her body, he didn’t believe she would.

  “A woman, however, might tempt me to entice her attention.”

  “I-I didn’t mean to suggest you’re some kind of pervert.”

  “Yet your words said exactly that. Perhaps I should show you my desire lies in the company of women and not girls.”

  Helen opened her mouth to respond, shut it, and froze.

  Simon focused on her pert little nose and soft rosy lips. A firm set of breasts brushed against his chest with every quick breath Helen took. He wasn’t sure who was breathing faster, him or her.

  Her mouth opened again, and Simon moved in to make his claim.

  In the next instant, a leg wound around his and a firm palm pushed him squarely against his sternum.

  He hit the floor with a thunk, scrambling his brain and his aroused lower body parts.

  “What the H. E. double L. do you think you’re doing?”

  “It’s called a kiss, love, or hasn’t anyone from this time introduced you to them?” With as much dignity as he could muster from the floor, Simon lifted his taut chin in her direction.

  “I know what kissing is. Don’t be absurd.” The blush rising up her neck spoke of innocence. An innocence Simon didn’t think Helen could possibly know. Then again, perhaps he was wrong about her.

  Maybe the tough act was just that…an A.C.T.

  Simon shook his head. Thinking of K.I.S.S.I.N.G. her was making him C.R.A.Z.Y.

  He froze. Why was he spelling things out in his mind? He didn’t care for spelling tests when he was in school, he certainly didn’t think of how to spell words now.

  Helen must have rattled more than his pride.

  H.E.L.E.N.

  Without ceremony, Simon shoved himself from the floor.

  “What is it?” she asked, backing away like a frightened child.

  Innocent. Her body language screamed it. And he’d nearly destroyed the trust they were building with a simple seduction. He wanted to reach out to her now and offer comfort, but he didn’t think she’d welcome his touch.

  “The books,” he said, backing away. Best to give her some space.

  Confusion raced over her brow.

  He scrambled to the front of the table and gathered the books they’d already examined. He positioned them next to each other on the table.

  “What are you doing?”

  “The answer is here.”

  She stood beside him now, farther away than she’d been all day.

  Looking over his shoulder, she asked, “Where?”

  Focus, Simon. “Each book has a different title. Each title starts with a differen
t letter.” He found the book he’d passed several times without so much as a glance. Hence Forth. “This starts with an H.” Simon placed it at the top left of the table and removed the other books to make room for others. He shifted through several books before he found the one he sought. Enlightening.

  “E.”

  Both of their hands fell on the next novel, Living.

  Helen pulled her hand away.

  “These book titles are an acronym?”

  “Aye. All this time we’ve looked for what’s inside, but what we see on the outside is what we wanted.”

  They spelled out Helen’s name and stopped. Several more books were stacked up on the table. They sat back and studied the books that spelled out her name.

  “I think you’re onto something,” she told him.

  They managed Helen’s name but then faltered. There were plenty of books left over with many different outcomes for an acronym.

  “Let’s write down the first word of the books and I’ll find a program that will calculate possible word combinations.” Helen scribbled the names of each of the books onto a piece of paper as they spoke.

  “You mean a computer program?” It had been years since he’d thought of a computer.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’d forgotten how useful they were.” They were easy to live without, in sixteenth century Scotland.

  “You really have been living in the dark ages, haven’t you?”

  Simon shook his head. “Actually, the dark ages of Scotland were long before the turn of the century—the tenth century—or so I’m told. I do believe the time in which I live in Scotland will be remembered as the Renaissance period.”

  “The word Renaissance makes it sound romantic. The guys trying to take me out with a sword ruined a perfectly good image in my brain.”

  “The strong survive. If one isn’t strong, they must be wise enough to avoid conflict and keep quiet to avoid detection.” Simon moved to the couch while they talked, giving her as much space as she needed.

  Helen wrote the names of the books down and pushed the papers aside. “How do the women protect themselves?”

  “Their men protect them.”

  “What if they don’t have a man to protect them?”