by Amy Vansant
“Somethin’s wrong,” he said.
She put her hands on her hips. “You know my name. Say it.”
“Ah dinnae ken—”
“Say it.”
He took a step back, a hissing building in his head.
“Say my name,” she repeated stepping towards him. The light of the setting sun struck something in her hand and it flashed.
She was holding a knife.
Stumbling back, his heel struck the base of the oak and he fell against it. He put his hands on his ears as the growing din in his head roared like a storm-tossed ocean trapped in his skull.
“Mah head. Somethin’s wrong. Ah—”
He dropped to his knees.
She approached, standing over him.
“Say my name.”
There has to be a way to make the noise stop.
“Say my name.”
She was nearly upon him.
The noise became unbearable and he screamed.
“Fiona!”
Broch awoke sitting in a strange bed in an unfamiliar room. A low, snorty growl sounded beside him and, recognizing it as a less-deafening version of the sound in his dream, he turned towards it.
In another small bed, separated from his own by a small table, Catriona snored.
“Did you say something?”’ she mumbled, her eyes fluttering open.
“Na,” he said, laying back down.
She rolled over and her breathing grew heavy.
Broch remembered where they were. The drapes of their Tennessee hotel were drawn, but through the sliver where they met, he could see it was still dark.
He whispered the name to himself to see how it felt on his tongue.
“Fiona.”
Chapter Two
Catriona retrieved her phone to call Peter Roseum, a Parasol Pictures work-colleague.
Peter was ideally suited for his job at the movie studio. In the pursuit of perfection, Hollywood talent never ran out of ways to injure themselves. Peter saw strange and ghastly things on a daily basis, and then rolled to lunch without a dent in his appetite. He’d seen things that kept her off the feedbag for a week.
Peter Roseum never shared horror stories with the press, earning him the name Doctor No-see-um—the name Catriona now pressed in her speed dial. She had to lay a little groundwork before heading back to Hollywood.
“Hey, where are you?” said Noseeum, answering.
He’d never not answered her call. She wasn’t sure he slept.
“Tennessee,” she said, strolling down the hotel hallway.
“Tennessee? What’s that?”
“It’s a state. Believe it or not, there’s life outside of California. Whole oceans even.”
He sniffed. “There be dragons.”
She chuckled. Noseeum came from a wealthy Southern California family and, other than the few years he spent at a Caribbean-based medical school, she didn’t think he’d ever deigned to leave the Golden State. She didn’t have enough battery life left on her phone to convince him Tennessee had its own charms.
She plowed ahead.
“Remember that guy I found passed out on the lot?”
“The naked Highlander I helped you stuff into your Jeep? Yes, I vaguely recall.”
“Yeah, well, his name is Brochan and he didn’t turn out to be background talent.”
“No? I saw his background talent and it looked pretty talented to me. If you like that sort of thing.”
“Ha. No, Pete, that naked butt was an omen that my whole world was about to change. He was the straw that sent the camel crashing to his knees. The Book of Revelations read by Sean Connery on a bender.”
“Boy. That’s a lot of things for a naked butt to be.”
She sighed. All she wanted to do was tell someone everything that had happened to her over the last few days. How her week had barreled like an eighteen wheeler with the brake lines cut. How she’d found a gorgeous Highlander on a Hollywood movie set. How she’d been kidnapped by a man with a removable face. How her adoptive father, Sean, believed both he and Brochan had traveled from eighteenth century Scotland to modern day California...and how Sean was pretty sure that Brochan was his son.
How do you tell someone your adopted father and the stranger you found passed out on the studio lot are a pair of time-travelers?
You don’t.
That information wasn’t something she could share with even a human-vault like Noseeum. He might be sworn by his medical oath to commit her. Anyway, she didn’t want him thinking she’d lost her mind.
The worst part was that Noseeum was so well trained, he’d never pry. She needed him to pry so she could unburden herself and then blame him for prying. Women-friends understood things like that. Noseeum didn’t get it.
She huffed. “You’re useless.”
“Where did that come from?”
“If you were a woman, you’d know.”
“Right. I’ll be sure to work on that. So, did you call just to insult me?”
Catriona sighed. “No. Sorry. Since Broch showed up, I’m a little off-kilter.”
“No pun intended.”
“Kilter. I get it. Funny.”
“I have my moments.”
“Anyway, I wanted to let you know that Broch’s working with me now. If he needs anything give it to him.”
“Hey now. I’m not that easy.”
Catriona ignored him and barreled on, her agitation piquing. “Can you believe Sean hired Broch? He just dropped him into the job I spent years earning.”
“Life is so unfair.”
“It is, Pete, it really is. I mean sure, Broch’s probably Sean’s son, but still—”
“What?”
“Broch. He’s more than likely Sean’s son.”
Catriona held her breath. Is Noseeum prying? Is he giving me an in? Can I tell him everything and get this off my chest?
It occurred to her that there’d been nothing but silence on the other end of the line for some time.
“Pete, did you hear me? Broch is Sean’s son.”
Noseeum grunted an affirmative. “Got it. So, are we done here or...?”
Son of a—
“Almost. I called to tell you about Broch and let you know Sean was shot. Long story.”
“What? Is he okay?”
Catriona was touched to hear genuine concern in Noseeum’s voice. “He’s fine.”
“You’re calling me for medical advice? This mythical Tennessee place doesn’t have doctors? Is he lying there at your feet, bleeding?”
Catriona rolled her eyes. There it is. The great white snark had returned.
“No, idiot. He was shot a few days ago during a job.”
She paused to test if Pete would ask for more information.
He didn’t.
Bastard. I’ll never get him to pry his way into my personal problems if he won’t even pry into a shooting.
Convinced the conversational ball was firmly back in her court, she continued.
“When Sean gets back to L.A., I want you to swing by and tell him his wounds are much worse than they look.”
“Huh?”
“You know him. He’s going to act like it’s a papercut. I want him to take it easy.”
“Oh, gotcha. No problem.”
“And if he ever tells you to lie to me like I’m asking you to lie to him, you be sure to tell me the truth, okay?”
“Always.”
She offered him the opportunity to ignore her final, exasperated sigh and said her goodbyes.
Today I’ll put the screws to Sean. Hopped-up on pain medication, he’d let it slip that she, too, might be of time-traveling stock. Shot or not, she needed to find out what he’d meant. He couldn’t just say things like that. It was like telling someone, oh, by the way, there’s a chance you can fly and then wandering off without explanation.
She’d tried to make Sean talk at the hospital, but he’d clammed up.
She closed her eyes and tried to think.
Hm. Speaking of kilts...
She turned and strode back up the hallway of their Knoxville hotel to their room. She’d left the door ajar, and entered to find Broch shirtless and kilted, his torso a muscly-terrain of man-flesh. It appeared that after his usual hour-long shower, he’d foregone his new jeans and returned to his tartan.
She ogled the six taut hills of his stomach and released a tiny, involuntary groan.
“Are ye well?” he asked, toweling his hair.
Her attention snapped to his eyes.
“What? Yes, I’m fine. Why?”
He shrugged and turned, his shoulder length hair dancing across his broad muscular back.
She sighed.
The previous night they’d both been so tired from their ordeal saving Sean from an age-old enemy, that they’d both fallen asleep without investigating where their bodies might lead them.
Hm. She was sick of spending half her time confused and frustrated by Broch’s very existence, and the other half longing to read his body like braille. It didn’t help her visceral need to resent him for co-opting her job and her father, that he was so damn charming and easy-going.
And hot. So, so hot.
Broch’s sense of whimsy made her doubt that he really was from the past. She’d never pictured eighteenth-century men being so jocular. She thought they march around all day killing boars and slamming together mugs of mead, toasting the hunt. Until Broch appeared, she’d only imagined Highlanders grunting, painting their faces blue and scratching themselves.
She put a hand on her hip and cocked her head, studying his kilt. He turned again and her eyes locked on the little tuft of hair leading from his belly button into the kilt.
What do people call that? The happy trail?
She saw he was staring at her and searched for a good reason why her focus had perched where it did.
“You’re not wearing your big-boy pants,” she said.
“Whit?”
“You’re in your kilt again.”
“Aye. Ah dinnae see how come ah should carry mah kilt when ah kin wear it as t’was intended.”
Right. Not having his kilt with him was like asking a Boy Scout to leave his pocket knife at home.
She had to admit, Brochan did wear a kilt with a flair no modern-day man could muster. He did everything with certain swaggering-yet-adorable confidence. It wasn’t the obnoxious confidence of a cocky man. More the conviction of a little boy who had yet to discover the world didn’t always work in his favor.
Broch fumbled with the in-room coffee maker and she watched him pour water through the empty filter area, directly on to the cold burner.
As the water splashed on his bare belly, he spat something in another language she felt confident was a profanity.
She smirked.
The coffee machine isn’t falling for his charms.
He bit the corner of a single-serving coffee bag to tear it open and it exploded, showering a three-foot radius with dark roast dust.
She chortled.
“Stop yer laughing.” He frowned at the smattering of coffee on his bare feet. Emptying the grains that remained in the pack into the filter, he refilled the coffee pot and this time poured it in the correct receptacle.
But for the coffee sprinkles, his feet looked fantastic. The previous night she’d introduced him to the joys of toe-nail clippers after catching him trimming with the steak knife left from room service. He’d nearly split with delight while using the tool, and insisted she let him clip her toenails as well.
“You know, you could have asked me how it works,” she said, motioning to the coffee maker.
He sniffed. “Ah’ll figure it oot.”
“But see, that’s the thing. You don’t have to figure it out. I can show you.”
He set his jaw. “Lassie, if ah’m aff tae be staying 'ere ah'm needin' tae figure things oot.”
She giggled at how serious he’d grown over the workings of a Mr. Coffee. “You think if you solve how to use that machine, it will provide you with life skills for the future?”
He snorted. “Life skills. Ye invent more words in a day than ah’ve known mah entire life.”
Broch felt the burner. His expression confirmed what she already knew—it was cold. He’d not turned on the machine.
Muttering, he found the on-button and pressed it. No light flashed. Spotting the unplugged electrical cord, he became engrossed by the prongs on it, holding it against various parts of the coffee machine, puzzling where to insert it.
“Look. I’d like to have coffee sometime this century, so how about I make it?”
Broch scowled. “Fine. But ah willnae watch.”
He stepped aside and turned his back to her, crossing his arms over his beefy chest.
Catriona brushed what coffee she could save from the counter and dumped it into the filter. As she plugged in the machine, she experienced the feeling of being watched. Broch had stationed himself in front of a mirror and observed her every movement in it. When she caught his stare, he looked away and twisted his body to the left as if that proved he hadn’t been watching.
“Och, tis nae my fault they put a keekin’ glass here. Dinnae mean ah’m keekin’ at ye.”
She nodded, trying to appear as solemn as possible. “Of course not.”
“Ye tell’t me never to keek at ye.”
“That’s right. We have a keek-free relationship now.”
She turned on the machine. As the switch light blinked to life, she heard Broch grunt. It was the sound someone might make while kicking themselves for not noticing the obvious.
Brewing didn’t get far before Broch shouted Ha! and pointed to the machine. Brown, speckled water bubbled from the top, spilling to the counter at an alarming rate.
Catriona yelped and fumbled to stop the machine from percolating its mess. It stopped with a final hiss, and she squinted in Broch’s direction.
“Did you try and put coffee in it without the filter? You must have blocked the hole with coffee and it backed up.”
He pursed his lips as if offended that she’d ask such a question. “Ah dinnae ken whit that means but nae.”
Catriona gathered her things. “Let’s get coffee at the hospital.”
Broch winced. “The hospital coffee?”
She had to agree with his assessment. “You’re right. The hospital coffee was pretty bad. We can grab some downstairs on the way.”
Broch took a step toward the door and she reached out to put a palm on his chest, stopping his progress. Ignoring the heat of his flesh beneath her fingertips and the fascinating ridges of his pectorals, she found the strength to hold fast.
“No shirt, no shoes, no service,” she said.
“Whit?”
“You have to wear a shirt in public. Remember? We talked about this.”
He glanced down at his naked torso. “Aye.”
He grabbed a white t-shirt they’d bought at the hotel store the day before and slipped it over his head. It had “Knox Vul” printed on it in large black letters, mimicking the way the locals pronounced the name of their city.
She crossed her arms against her chest and tongued the side of her cheek, studying his ensemble.
A novelty tee and a kilt. Would it be better to let him head out shirtless and remove all doubt that he’s a loon?
She decided to let it go. He passed her and moved into the hallway, beaming with manly swagger.
At least he wears it well.
He leaned in and peered into her face as she closed the door behind them.
“What are you doing?’ she asked, tucking in her chin like a disturbed turtle.
“Keekin’ at yer face,” he said, his gaze moving back and forth across her countenance as if he was using his eyes to paint her. “Does it ever keek different?”
She gaped at him. “Are you asking if my face can look different? What kind of thing is that to say? Is that a request?”
/> “Na. Ah had a dream and—” His voice faded. After a moment, he shook his head and walked toward the elevator without another word.
Catriona watched him go, one eye squinted, her lip curled with confusion.
“You are so weird,” she muttered as the door clicked shut.
Chapter Three
Catriona knew something was wrong the moment the elevator doors opened to the hotel lobby.
Thirty women grouped into a pulsating pod of bodies turned their eyes toward them at the same time, as if operating with a single mind.
Catriona expected people to gawk at Broch’s kilt. Naturally, it inspired snickering in modern day America. But the way these women gaped—this was something different.
The pod drifted toward them, moving as a unit, a low murmur thrumming like an engine.
Catriona and Broch took two steps into the lobby before he stopped short and thrust his arm in front of her as if it were a railroad-crossing bar.
“Hold. Something isnae richt here,” he said.
She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Yah think?”
“Aye.”
She let it slide. He hadn’t fully grasped modern day sarcasm.
Placing her hand on the arm he held in front of her, she pressed until he lowered it. “I think you’re the one who needs to worry. They’re staring at you, not me.”
She didn’t lie. All leers had locked on Broch and the mob as a whole shifted to the right like a school of fish, gravitating toward him. The group drew tighter, creating a human shield between them and the exit.
Catriona took a step in front of Broch and held up her hands. “Ladies, is there—”
She cut short. Her step forward positioned her far enough into the lobby that she could see a banner hanging from the ceiling.
Welcome Knoxville Chapter of the Highlander Appreciation Clan (HAC).
Catriona turned her head, her eyes dropping to Broch’s kilt.
Oh no.
As if on cue, the approaching group burst into frantic chatter.
“Will you sign my book?”
“Will you sign my chest?”
“It isn’t him, it doesn’t even look like him.”
“Who cares?”
“Is he a stripper?”