Flight of Dragons

by Elianne Adams, Sadie Haller, Zoe York, Shelley Munro, Zara Keane, LC Alleyne, Skye Jones, Evanne Lorraine, Ann Gimpel

  It’s almost as if he’s used to people obeying him, she mused. If there was one thing she was good at, it was dredging information out of the unwilling. It went with the territory. “Go ahead.” She gestured toward the last plate of food. “I’m not especially hungry. There’s always food at the hospital.

  “You said you’re a stranger. Where are you from?” She kept her tone conversational and non-threatening.

  Lachlan had begun to empty the third plate the moment she indicated it was up for grabs. “Um, one of the neighboring villages, a long day’s ride from here.”

  Neighboring villages? Long day’s ride?

  Maggie focused intently on him, trying to figure out what was wrong. He was lying, but she couldn’t understand why. “I’ve been here for six months and haven’t seen you. I’m guessing you don’t visit Inverness often.”

  “Aye. Not often.” The bartender walked to their table with Lachlan’s ale, and he held out a hand for it. “Thank you, my man. Good service is its own reward.”

  Maggie cringed, knowing full well the bartender would much rather have had a tip. “Well,” she persisted. “Which village?”

  His eyes narrowed. “What’s it to you, lass?”

  She shrugged. “Just curious.”

  “Aye, and ye did a fair job looking me up and down while I perused yon pamphlet.” He crumpled a piece of newsprint and wiped grease from his fingers. Then he grinned at her. “Did ye like what ye saw?”

  Maggie felt her face heat. So her subtle inspection hadn’t gone unnoticed. She tried a more direct approach. “You’re a handsome man. Surely people have told you that before.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Afore, ye said my accent was off. Yours is passing strange. Ye canna be from these parts.”

  “I’m from the States. Everyone who hears me talk knows right off the bat.”

  “States? Which states might those be?” He looked genuinely confused, his forehead crinkling as he sought to understand her.

  Maggie sucked in a breath. Something was decidedly wrong here. He’d asked “which states might those be” in good faith, not realizing how odd his question was. She glanced at the empty dishes on their table and then at her watch.

  Should I?

  Maggie learned to trust her hunches long before she’d gone to medical school. She came from a prominent family of witches, starting with one who’d been hung during the trials in Salem in the sixteen hundreds. Her relatives told her she held untapped talent, should she ever choose to develop it. In truth, they’d been furious when she spurned the coven, but Maggie hadn’t cared. Though magic held a certain questionable fascination, she’d relegated it to I’ll delve into it later status so many times, she rarely thought about her gift at all anymore.

  Giving in to her instincts, she pulled her iPhone from her bag and swiped a finger across its screen. She watched Lachlan out of the corners of her eyes while the message menu flared to life. Though he tried to hide his reaction, incredulity flitted across his aristocratic features. She tapped a text message, punched Send, and slid the phone back into her purse.

  He jumped when the phone made its miniature jet airplane noise indicating her message had been sent. “What’s that?” he asked, voice hoarse.

  “A phone.”

  “That doesna help.”

  Maggie felt a smile tug the edges of her mouth. “No. I didn’t think it would. You’re done eating. How about if you come with me?”

  “For what purpose?”

  “Well, for starters, we need to get your hair cut and get you some clothes, so you don’t stick out like a sore thumb.”

  His eyes widened, and he set his jaw in a hard line. “While I’m certain I could use a barber, I refuse to wear other than my plaid. It tells others I’m the head of Clan Moncrieffe.”

  “Look.” She bent toward him and lowered her voice. “If you appear odd enough, the police will lock you up and call someone like me to come examine you.”

  “They wouldna dare,” he thundered, half-rising to his feet. The bar had filled with patrons since they arrived. Every head in the place swiveled to stare at him. Apparently wise to the ways of crowds, Lachlan held up both hands. “Doona mind me,” he murmured and sank back onto his seat.

  “Need some help, Mags?” The bartender raced toward them, looking worried.

  She shook her head. “No, Hank. It’s fine. I’ve got things under control.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, very sure.” Maggie breathed a sigh of relief when Hank turned and retreated behind the bar.

  “Mayhap ye’re right,” Lachlan said. “’Twould be prudent for us to leave this establishment afore they go for my throat, and I’m forced to defend myself.” He stuffed his dagger back beneath his kilt and stood.

  She smiled reassuringly and got to her feet. “There’s a barbershop not a block from here. How about if we make it our first stop?” When he nodded assent, his nostrils flaring, she hooked a hand through his arm and half dragged him out of the pub. From the tension in his muscles beneath her fingertips, she could’ve sworn he was girding himself for combat.

  Has he had to fight his way out of places like this before?

  Maggie opened her mouth to ask but clacked it shut. They needed to talk, but the conversation she had in mind required privacy. Maybe after he’d gotten his hair trimmed, she’d come up with a secluded spot. She stole a glance at the proud set of his shoulders and his ramrod-straight posture.

  I could be wrong, but he looks like an ancient warrior.

  “Say,” she ventured. “What do you want to do about your beard?”

  He half-turned his head and looked at her with humor dancing in his green eyes. “Doona ye care for it?”

  Maggie laughed. “I’m sure it’s lovely, but you look like a reincarnation of Moses.”

  He snorted. “At least that name is a familiar one. Aye, lass, I plan to shave my beard. I prefer a bare face. Less problems with those wee beasties that live in human hair.”

  “Do you mean lice?” She untied her shirt from around her waist and slipped into it, securing the buttons. The barber was an older gentleman, and she didn’t want to make him uncomfortable by exposing too much skin.

  Lachlan watched her, his eyes wary. “I doona ken the term. Ye said ye were needed at your work.”

  “I texted them and said I wouldn’t be in until tomorrow and to page me if they need me before then.”

  He opened his mouth as if to ask a question about what she’d just said, but closed it and shook his head. Moments later, he tried again. “Ye’re a healer?” When she nodded, he went on. “Where are your healer’s robes? Your staff? Your herb pouch?” He looked as if he were trying to assimilate pieces of data that simply wouldn’t fit together. “The only female healers are witches, practitioners of the dark arts. Is that what ye are?”

  “The barbershop is just ahead. We need to be alone, so we can talk. We can do that once we’re done here.”

  “Ye dinna answer me.”

  Maggie stepped in front of him. Placing a hand on either shoulder, she gazed right into his amazing green eyes. A woman could lose herself in their depths. “The only thing you need to know right now is I would never hurt you.”

  He placed a finger beneath her chin, and his gaze bored into hers. Maggie felt something like an electric shock move from the top of her head to the soles of her feet, but she held herself open. Lachlan had to trust her. If she warded herself—one of the simplest magics, and practically the only spell she knew—he never would.

  His expression softened. “Aye,” he murmured. “A witch, but a puny one, or mayhap your magic’s undeveloped.”

  Maggie laughed. She couldn’t help herself. “Christ! You sound just like my grandmother.”

  A hint of a smile played around his mouth making him look hot, desirable. “She must be a wise, old crone.”

  “Inside.” Maggie moved away from him and pushed the door to the barbershop open. “I’m going to make you earn your
wages today, Fernley,” she called out.

  A portly, bald man wrapped in a white coat emerged from the back of the shop. Bright blue eyes twinkled behind a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles. “Maggie, my girl. What have you brought me?”

  “Shave my beard and cut my hair,” Lachlan ordered, the imperious tone back in his voice.

  The barber raised his eyebrows. “You could do with a shot of manners, young man.”

  Maggie saw Lachlan’s jaw tighten, but he gritted out, “Please.”

  “Better. Have a seat.” Fernley pointed to a chair, and Lachlan settled himself. “Say, that sword looks really old. I’m fascinated by antiques. Mind if I take a closer look?” Fernly bent his head to inspect it.

  Lachlan laid a hand protectively over the hilt. “Aye, that I do. No hand but mine touches this weapon.”

  “Humph. I see.” Fernley shot Maggie a look that clearly said, Where in God’s name did you come up with this joker? “Tilt your head back, then. We’ll begin with the beard.”

  An hour later, much of which had been consumed getting the snarls out of Lachlan’s hair prior to cutting it, Maggie withdrew her ATM card and handed it to Fernly. She felt Lachlan’s eyes on her. He watched intently as the barber swiped her card through his reader, handed it back to her, and she bent to sign the small display.

  He seemed either cowed or overwhelmed as they left the shop. Maggie cast a covert glance his way. Her breath caught in her throat. If he’d been the most handsome man she’d ever seen before Fernley’s ministrations, he was doubly or trebly so now. The beard had hidden much of his facial structure. With it gone, and his hair cut to shoulder length, he could’ve passed for a male model—or a movie star.

  “Where to next, lassie?” He stopped a few feet from the barbershop door. She hesitated while she thought about where they could sit, safe from prying ears. Apparently, he mistook her silence for ambivalence. “Lass.” His voice held a musical undercurrent. “Ye have done far more than enough for me. I can find my own way from here. If ye might tell me where I could leave some coins to repay your generosity—”

  “No.” She grabbed his arm and then let go, feeling she’d overstepped the boundaries of propriety. “I mean, if you’d like to leave, of course you’re free to do so. But I thought if we had time alone where we could talk, it might clear up some of the questions I’ve seen in your eyes.”

  “Was talk the only thing ye had in mind, lass?” He cocked his head to one side, his gaze moving from the tip of her head to her mouth to her breasts, and then lower still.

  Maggie inhaled shakily and forced herself to meet his gaze. “Like I said, you’re quite the hunk, but I still think you’d be better served talking with me than fucking me.”

  He drew his brows together into a coppery line. “’Tisn’t seemly for a lass to use such language. I doona understand how ye can be a healer yet speak like a gutter wench.”

  She took stock of what she knew. He wasn’t mentally ill. Not any mental illness she knew about, anyway, and she was familiar with all of them. So that left out delusional, fugue state, and a fixed time or person hallucination. Besides, even undeveloped as they were, the boost from her witch senses corroborated his sanity. If he wasn’t ill, there was only one explanation left. He had to be from the past. How he’d ended up on the streets of Inverness in 2012 was beyond her, but it had happened just the same.

  “Lass?” It was his turn to look appraisingly at something other than her body.

  Oh, what the hell.

  She drew him off to one side of the sidewalk. Then she moved right up next to him and stood on tiptoe, so she could talk into his ear. “Please. You were right when you intuited I have witch blood. Somehow you also knew I’d never trained my magic beyond an embarrassingly basic skill set.”

  He wrapped his arms around her and drew her against his body. The heat from him set her nerve endings on fire. Her nipples pebbled into peaks. Too tight shorts rubbed against suddenly swollen labia.

  “Aye, lass. Now tell me something I doona know.” His mouth was inches from hers. An enticing, exotic scent reminiscent of bay rum and vanilla made her want to lick him from head to toe.

  Maggie fought an urge to brush her lips against his, to taste him, starting with his finely chiseled lips, but forged ahead, her mouth pressed against his ear. “You’re from a different time. It’s why you looked as if a demon walked over your grave when you read the newspaper. You must’ve seen the date.”

  “Aye, and what else do ye think ye know?” He ran his hands ever so slowly down her back. They left a trail of sparks before settling on her ass. He cupped it in his hands and snugged her against his unmistakable erection.

  She wriggled against him, disconcertingly near coming. “I can’t think when you’re this close.” She wrenched herself away, breathing hard.

  A slow, lazy grin lit his heartbreakingly handsome face. “Aye, lass, I’ll accompany you. To talk, mind ye.” He winked.

  For one wild, crazy moment, she thought about bringing him to her rented flat. It would certainly give them the privacy they needed. Or I could rent us a hotel room, which would be just as chancy. Maggie waged a brief internal war with her common sense.

  He’s a stranger, one side of her brain screamed in protest.

  So what?

  “What was it ye said about the sign over the pub door?” He asked laconically, almost as if he could read her mind. “It doesna bite. Well, neither do I.”

  “My car’s a couple blocks from here. If I’m going to bring you home with me, we’ll need to drive.”

  He looped an arm over her shoulders. “Lead out, lass. I understand drive, but what’s a car?”

  “Shh.” She placed a finger over her lips and looked around them. Thank Christ no one was standing close enough to hear.

  She pointed at a string of vehicles parked next to the curb and started walking. “All of them.”

  “Where are the horses?”

  “People haven’t used horses for anything other than pleasure riding for about a hundred years.”

  He spoke low. “What makes these car-things move?”

  “Gasoline and sometimes electricity.”

  He chuckled and tightened his arm around her. “Aye, and this just gets deeper and deeper, doesna it?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Her side pressed against his body, but she blazed with need to be closer still. To clear her head, she moved from beneath his arm and trotted ahead, wishing she’d worn tennis shoes rather than sandals.

  “Lass?” He chugged alongside her, easily catching her up.

  “It’s the red Fiat halfway down the next block.” In a burst of frivolity, she added, “Bet I can beat you,” and took off running.

  Chapter Three

  Lachlan wasn’t expecting her to race away like a young child. It took him several moments to stop staring at the clean lines of ass and legs as she ran and chase after her. The lass, Maggie, was as enticing a woman as he’d ever come across. What hips she had. If ever a woman were made for childbearing…

  “Caught you.” He grabbed her arm and spun her to face him, before angling his mouth over hers. Half anticipating a sharp slap, he was pleasantly surprised when she opened her mouth beneath his and sparred with his tongue. She tasted sweet, like a well-aged wine. The swell of her breasts pressing against his chest nearly drove him mad.

  Breaking away from a kiss that was developing a life of its own, she murmured, “We’re never going to get to the car at this rate.”

  “Ye said red.” He gazed at the row of metal things she’d indicated were cars. “I only see one red conveyance, so it must be yours.”

  “Very good, Einstein. Let’s see if we can get there.” She pulled away and started walking again. He loped to her side and took her arm.

  “Einstein?”

  “Never mind.” She fished something black and silver from her bag and pushed a small red button that made an odd chirrup noise. “Go ahead, get in.” She motioned to the door on the opposi
te side from the walkway. “I’m still not that great with this right-hand drive thing, but I promise not to kill us.”

  He walked into the street. An obnoxiously loud noise set his heart racing as another car sped past, scant inches from his body. They’re just like carriages, he tried to tell himself, gulping air. ’Twas stupid of me not to look afore stepping into the roadway.

  He flattened himself against the side of Maggie’s car and looked at the outline of the door. A recessed, silvery panel must be the secret to open it. He was just reaching for it when she leaned across the car, did something, and his door popped open. He folded his frame into a space that felt far too small and made certain his sword was snugged up against himself before tugging the door shut.

  He gazed at dials and levers. Maggie twisted something, and the same whirring sound all these contraptions made assaulted his ears.

  “Hang on,” she murmured. “This will seem strange, but here we go. Whatever you do, do not open your door until the car stops—no matter how nervous this makes you.”

  “I’m never nervous.” His voice wasn’t as smooth and confident as he hoped it would sound. He tightened his grip on his sword hilt.

  She grinned and pulled into the street. “I would be. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “How far can one of these, er, cars travel in a day?”

  She shrugged. “Depends. Three hundred miles is an easy day, but you could drive five or six hundred if you started early and drove until late. In the States, where the roads are better, I’ve driven as much as eight hundred, but I was pretty tired at the end of it.”

  He fell back against the seat cushions. Breath whooshed out of him. She couldn’t have traveled such a great distance in a single day. It wasn’t possible, not without a hefty magical assist. He chewed on his lower lip. Could he trust this woman? This witch? She could’ve closed her mind to him—not that it would have kept him out—but she hadn’t even tried. Questions spilled through his overburdened brain.

  How could he have slept so long, yet remain relatively untouched? Why had he awakened when he did? How could he locate Rhukon amid all this weirdness? For that matter, was Rhukon still after him?