By the time they finished–and got the shower out of the way–the mirrors were so steamed up neither could see their reflection. Faolan dried her off first with one of the soft, fluffy towels then she did the same for him.
“My turn,” she laughed, pointing him to the vanity stool. “I’ve been dying to get my hands in all this hair.” She tugged the comb through his wet hair over and over until it fell like a silky black waterfall. At his request, she wove it into one heavy braid, then rolled it under and tied it with a leather strip as she had seen him do. “Did you wear little braids at the temples like in Braveheart?” she asked.
He smiled, remembering. “Aye, it keeps the hair out of yer eyes during battle. We wore them at other times too,” he said. “When my wife died, I wore them when I mourned her loss. That was so long ago.” He sighed, pulling Colleen down into his lap and giving her an affectionate squeeze. “Let’s think of happier things, like breakfast.” He gave her such an outrageous grin she couldn’t help but smile back.
To neither one’s surprise, Colleen arrived at her office a few minutes later than usual, still aglow and blushing from the morning’s ablutions. Tossing her purse into its customary nesting place in her bottom desk drawer, she checked her voice mail and found two waiting for her immediate attention. The one that had to be addressed first was from her boss. She snatched up the phone receiver and punched in the extension to call her back.
“Colleen, dear, just letting you know the planning committee has set the date for the annual museum awards banquet; this year it’s going to be black tie. Isn’t that exciting?” Mrs. Weston said in a cheery voice.
Colleen couldn’t agree more. The previous year some genius had opted for something ‘different.’ The fete’s theme ended up being a bizarre cross between Victorian England and a Parrothead frat party. She gave an involuntary shudder, remembering that particular train wreck entitled Dickens in Paradise. “That is wonderful news,” she said, breathing a sigh of relief.
“I’ll interoffice your invitations and the menu selection card. Will you have a date for the evening?”
Colleen thought for a moment. “Yes, I will,” she said slowly. She got a visual of Faolan in a black tuxedo and bit her lip to stifle the soft moan when her entire body throbbed in response. So intent was she on that sensation, she nearly missed what was said next.
“You’ll be a presenter this year, so keep that in mind when selecting your gown.”
“Gown?” she gasped. “Oh, yes…I’ll need one. Thank you!” She hung up quickly and allowed herself to indulge in a moment of fantasy, imagining the faces of her co-workers when she showed up escorted by Faolan in that wonderfully tailored suit. Charcoal grey, she thought, with dark…no, black. It has to be black with all that hair. She took a deep breath to regain her composure before checking the next message.
“Colleen, call me immediately,” Marc’s curt voice rang out. No please or may I or anything, she noted. When she dialed his office, Marc answered on the first ring with a gruff “I’ll be right there,” before slamming the phone down in her ear.
True to his word, he was at her door within five minutes. He strode in without knocking, closing the door behind him and flopping down on one of the two visitors chairs. “I need to talk to you,” he began. “I’ve got some information I think you need. I wasn’t going to say anything because…well, it’s not my business, but I’m worried about you.”
“Why on earth would you be worried about me?” Colleen asked in the best interested voice she could muster. What was he up to, she wondered silently.
He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s about your boyfriend.”
She nearly clapped a hand over her mouth to keep the laugh from escaping. “What about him?” she said, her tone mild.
“I was just wondering if you knew him as well as you think you do,” he said, his voice dripping with insinuation. “I had a friend of mine with the police department run his name…”
“You did what?” Colleen shrieked, slamming her palms down on the desktop.
“Calm down and hear me out. You’ll be glad you did,” he said smugly. “He doesn’t have any records in the US we were able to find, so I called a colleague in the UK. Figured that’s where his accent was from. Anyway, they ran his name through Scotland Yard and Interpol to see if anything came up.”
Colleen rolled her eyes and in a very poor French accent snapped, “So what did you find, Inspector Clouseau?”
He ignored the jibe. “He’s a dangerous felon, Colleen. He’s got a bunch of arrest warrants out for him for all kinds of stuff, most of it violent. Robbery, assault. I think he even killed a couple of people.”
It was difficult, but Colleen managed to hold a straight face. “Can I see this report?” she asked, widening her eyes for dramatic effect.
“No,” he hedged, “I didn’t get an actual report–privacy laws and all–but the person I talked to said this guy is definitely bad news. I think maybe you shouldn’t see him anymore, Colleen. No matter what has happened between us, I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Colleen’s brows furrowed as if in deep thought. “I’m pretty sure you’ve got the wrong guy. Faolan seems like such a gentle man, but I’ll ask him about it–”
“No,” Marc cried. “If he thinks you’re on to him, he might hurt you. We can’t take that chance, Colleen.”
We? Not. “Thank you for letting me know about this, Marc,” Colleen said, rising. “I’ll think about what you said. I…” And here her hand fluttered to her chest in a feminine gesture that would have made Scarlett O’Hara green with envy, “…I had no idea he was such a dangerous man.”
“Just be careful,” Marc said, “and if you need me you just call, okay? I’m here for you.”
Colleen nodded once under the pretext of being too choked up by his offer to speak. Marc smiled and with a satisfied nod, left the office. Once certain he was out of earshot, she folded her arms on her desk, buried her face and laughed until the tears ran down her cheeks.
7
Since business was slow, Colleen left work in the early afternoon. At the apartment, she found Faolan sprawled out on the couch dividing his attention between a History Channel documentary on WWI, a library book and a rapidly dwindling pack of Oreos. “C’mon, we’re going shopping,” she chirped.
Faolan grabbed the remote and turned off the TV. “Where are we off to, Princess?” Using almost reverent care, he placed one of the library bookmarks inside the hardback and smoothed the cover as he set it aside. He then picked up the bag of Oreos and waggled it a bit as if testing its weight. Peeling back the plastic, he pulled out the last three, gazing down at them with a mournful expression. “Cookie?” he asked reluctantly, holding out his hand. When she declined, he grinned and popped all three in his mouth at once, crunching noisily. “Whef e goin’ gain?” he asked, cheeks bulging.
“Just a little clothes shopping,” she explained, digging through her wallet to check the available cash level. It was a little on the low side for what she had in mind, and there was only one remedy for that in the middle of a pay period. Damn. “Faolan? Do you think that maybe you could…” she asked, awkwardly gesturing toward the leather sporran lying on the end table.
Faolan swallowed and nodded. “Och, aye,” he said, reaching for his pouch. “How much are ye needing?”
Colleen frowned. “I figure a couple hundred at least. How much gold will that translate into?” Tapping her chin, she tried to calculate it out and shook her head in frustration. “I wish there were an easier way to do this.”
“To do what?” he asked, absently rattling the plastic cookie container and lifting the lid again to check for edible sized crumbs. “We’re going to need more of these too, I reckon,” he said. “Mayhap we can stop at the market while we’re out.”
Colleen was still caught up with the cash dilemma. “That money thing with your bag. The people at the pawn shops are going to start asking questions about where all th
ese coins are coming from. I have no idea what I’m going to tell them when they do,” she confessed.
He scratched his head. “I’ve wondered that myself,” he said. “Why doona ye just use yer regular currency?” He mumbled something under his breath and stuck his hand inside the depths of the pouch.
Fixing him with a steely glare Colleen snapped, “Are you going to sit there and tell me that you can…” When her question was answered by his hand reappearing and clutching a fat roll of bills, she shook her head. “You know, you might have mentioned that you could do that before now.”
He grinned and held out the money to her. “I wasna familiar with yer monetary system that first night, but I do remember telling ye the bag will give me what I ask for, Princess. Such a shame you doona pay attention.”
She gave him a sweet smile. “Thank you, Faolan,” she said, accepting his offering. “Now ask it for a Scot sized muzzle.”
* * * *
Colleen explained about the awards banquet on the way to the formal wear shop. “I know it is weeks away, but I don’t like waiting until the last minute. We’ll have to get you fitted for a tux now, and considering your size, we’ll probably have to buy it instead of renting.”
Faolan had more pressing things on his mind than new clothes. “When are ye going to teach me to drive, Princess?” he asked, his voice stilted in formality. “I hope ye know this is an affront to my manhood, allowing a woman to escort me about as if I were incapable of doing so on my own.”
“Soon, I promise,” she assured him. “You already know the basics, so once you get a little practice in we can take you to get your permit.”
He nodded once in agreement, not meeting her gaze. “It would mean much to me to be able to drive ye to yer feast,” he said quietly. “’Tis part of my duties as yer escort.”
She regarded him then, her chivalrous man out of time, realizing what it cost him to ask that of her. “Tell you what,” she said, “Sunday morning. We’ll get up early and find you an empty parking lot to practice in. How’s that?”
The corners of his lips turned up in a smile. “Aye, lass, that’ll do,” he said, taking her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze of thanks.
It wasn’t a long drive to the formal wear store. “We get a lot of the Bucs in here, so we’ve got a good selection for big men,” the elderly salesman explained, gesturing to a Tampa Bay Buccaneers pennant displayed proudly behind the counter.
“Buccaneers? Here?” Faolan glanced around the store in surprise. The clerk ambled off, waving for them to follow. Faolan took Colleen’s hand and they fell in step behind him. “I wouldna thought pirates would still be sailing in these modern times,” he whispered.
After a brief discussion about the affair to be attended, the two men disappeared into the fitting rooms with an armload of suits. Colleen took a seat to watch as one by one Faolan modeled them for her. She couldn’t decided which one she liked best, but once again showing unerring fashion sense, Faolan selected the black Versace tux. Colleen’s mouth watered just watching the handsome man adjust the shirt cuffs while the salesman explained about the bow tie.
When the suit was bagged up and ready to go, Faolan turned to her with a warm smile. “And what will ye be wearing, Blossom?” When she hesitated, he turned to the salesman. “The lady will need a gown. The finest ye offer.”
She shook her head at the clerk. “I’m not going getting my gown today,” Colleen explained quickly. “This trip was for you. I can buy my own next week.”
Faolan continued talking to the salesman as if she had not even spoken. “She will be addressing this gathering of important personages and all eyes will be upon her. I would see her properly attired to best set off her natural beauty.”
Colleen blushed at the compliment before tugging at his sleeve. “I’m going to look for a dress next–”
He held up a hand for her to be quiet. “Her gown should be fashionable and of highest quality as is befitting her station, but not too ostentatious. Perhaps in a dark green to match her eyes.” When Colleen opened her mouth again to protest, Faolan shut it with a gentle finger. “Let me do this for ye, love. I’ve told ye I would see ye arrayed in beautiful gowns.”
Colleen sent a longing look at the formal gown clad mannequins on pedestals throughout the store. “I guess there’d be no harm in just looking since we’re here…” she mumbled.
“This way,” said the delighted salesman, and the couple followed him to the other side of the expansive store. Faolan took numerous dresses from the racks, discarding one after the other. An unflattering hue. Too many geegaws. And her personal favorite “I doona want other men looking at them” when he picked up one boasting a ruffled neckline that plunged to the waist.
He finally selected five different gowns that met his exacting criteria, each one more perfect than the last. With a demure smile, she slipped into the dressing room to try them on. The one he pronounced his favorite was hers too, in the requested shade of green satin. The pleated bodice was held up by two thin spaghetti straps and tapered into a cinched waist, then fell in soft gathers to her ankles. “Ye could wear yer hair up. I would like that,” he murmured, then slid his hand under the heavy fall of her hair and lifting it placed a warm kiss on the back of her neck. “‘Twould make it easier to do this.”
A shiver coursed over her. “I could do that,” she sighed dreamily.
He placed both hands on her waist and whispered against her ear, “We’ve got to get out of here, lass. The gown yer wearing’s making me hard as stone, and if ye doona think yon dressing room will afford us enough privacy I suggest ye get us home before I take ye right here.”
She threw him a coy look over her shoulder and sauntered toward the dressing room, hips swaying in open invitation. He groaned. “Now, lass.”
Colleen giggled, blowing him a kiss as she disappeared behind the dressing room doors. By the time she reappeared, Faolan had already paid for their purchases and stood rocking back and forth on his heels impatiently. “Let’s go,” he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward the door. Colleen had the presence of mind to grab the voluminous plastic dress bags, and they departed the store with the amused chuckle of the aged clerk ringing in their ears.
* * * *
When they roused again later–this time on the living room floor with the garment bags tossed haphazardly over the back of the couch–it was dark. “I canna go on like this,” Faolan moaned. “If ye insist on using my body so roughly, the least ye could do is spare me a moment to eat to keep up my strength.”
Pulling herself upright, Colleen sniffed with mock disdain. “As if you’d let anything keep you from eating.” She stood and offered her hand to help. He accepted it but instead of rising pulled her down on top of him again. She giggled at the unexpected tumble. “You’re not going to get fed at this rate, you know.”
“Yer all the sustenance I need, sweet Colleen,” he smiled up at her. “Ah, how I do love ye, lass.”
“And I love–” she began but his insistent mouth cut her words off, giving her a fierce kiss and silencing her in the process.
Suddenly he pulled back and frowned. “Hungry, ye said?” he mumbled and taking her with him, stood and set her feet down on the floor. Confused by his sudden change of mood, she nodded and followed him the kitchen.
After dinner, they curled up and watched the History Channel until it became obvious Faolan was much more interested in the treasures inside her clothes than anything found in King Tut’s tomb. This time they did make it all the way to the bed, and afterward fell into a deep, contented sleep.
* * * *
“But ’tis Saturday. Why do ye have to go to work?” Faolan complained when the alarm went off at its usual weekday morning time.
“We’re got shipments coming in with the new exhibit items. I need to check in and inventory the new concessions. I won’t be long,” she promised, giving him a kiss on the cheek, “just a few hours at the most.”
“See it’s
not,” he growled with a distinct snort of disapproval. “I had plans for ye this weekend, and they dinna include ye rousting yerself from this bed for naught but food.”
Crossing her heart in promise, Colleen slid off the bed and headed for a quick shower. He was still in bed when she got out, strategically arranged with the sheet pulled up just high enough to preserve a tiny bit of modesty, but not leaving much to the imagination as to what lurked beneath the Egyptian cotton. “Hurry ye home, lass,” he said.
“Don’t get up. I’ll be back before you know it.” With a quick kiss, she was gone.
The apartment fell silent. Faolan lay in quiet reverie for a while, enjoying the warm coziness of the bed and the memory of her soft lips pressing his cheek. Laying his head on her pillow, he reveled in the scent of her and smiled, her soft mewling cries of pleasure echoing in his ears. On that peaceful and satisfying thought, he contemplated dozing off again until she returned home, back to bed and into his waiting arms.
No matter how hard he tried, sleep did not come. He tossed. He turned. He fluffed the pillows once then fluffed them again. The soft sheets caressed his sensitized skin with each movement, turning each squirm into a torrent of sensation. He finally heaved a sigh of resignation, realizing he wasn’t going to return to sleep any time soon. “That woman is always running off,” he grumbled, lowering his hand to scratch his nether regions. When his cock jumped in response, he chuckled. “Easy there,” he soothed, “she’ll be back soon and we’ll give her another ride, eh?”
That bawdy thought sent his thoughts wandering. For the first time in too many years to count, he remembered a fine morning in another lifetime.
* * * *
The gray morning sky announced the first snowfall of the year. Two rough and tumble young men, four and six winters respectively, pushed past him at the massive hall door, nearly knocking him over in their haste to get outside and play.
“Here now…watch yerselves,” he barked, but his rebuke landed on deaf ears. The boys hooted their pleasure, falling and rolling in the frozen whiteness blanketing the ground. With a broad smile at his sons, Faolan would have returned to basking before the stone hearth had the snowball not smacked the wooden doorframe a mere inch or so from his head.
Rogue on the Rollaway Page 14