Kiss of the Highlander

Page 29

“My word is good. Besides, you have no other choice.”
“But I do. We walk.” He took her hand and started to drag her back the way they’d come.
Gwen panicked. There was no way she was walking for two days. No way in hell. “All right,” she cried. “You can come. But you’ve got to get rid of those weapons. You can’t saunter into Fairhaven with an ax on your back, a sword at your waist, and fifty knives.”
His jaw tightened and she could see he was preparing a list of protests.
“No,” she said, raising a hand to cut him off. “One knife. You may keep one knife and that’s it. The rest of it stays here. We will come back for it once we have a car. I can explain your costume by telling people you are working on one of those battle-reenactment thingies, but I will not be able to explain so many weapons.”
With a gusty sigh, he removed his weapons. After depositing them beneath a tree, he moved reluctantly toward the village.
“Uh, excuse me,” she said to his back.
“What now?” He stopped and glanced back at her, clearly exasperated.
She gazed pointedly at the sword, which he hadn’t removed.
“You said one knife. You didn’t specify what size it should be.”
There was a dangerous glint in his gaze and, realizing she’d pushed him as far as he would bend, she acquiesced. She’d just say the sword was part of the costume. She glanced at it, wishing those glittering gems in the hilt looked less real. They could end up getting mugged for some silly fake sword.
At the rental agency, Gwen leased the last, dilapidated little car and arranged to collect it in an hour, which would give them ample time to purchase clothing, food, and coffee before leaving for Alborath. Guiding him past the curious stares of the onlookers, and occasionally tugging on his arm when he stopped to stare, she finally got him into Barrett’s, a sporting-goods store that had the obligatory tourist’s miscellany of other items.
In no time he would be presentable. People would stop gawking at him as he passed before turning their scrutiny to her, as if trying to figure out what a perfectly normal-looking, albeit a bit grubby, American was doing strolling about with such a barbarian. They would stop drawing attention to themselves—a thing Gwen despised—and they would take a nice drive to Alborath. Perhaps have lunch with his family while she explained how she’d found him. She’d entrust him to his familial bosom and then catch up with her tour group in the next village.
Do you really want to leave him? Return to the seniors?
After last night she was no longer certain she would be able to leave him. Perhaps she’d linger for a time near his home and see how he fared before moving on. It wasn’t as if there was anything in the States she was in a hurry to get back to. Not her job, not the exquisite, sprawling house on Canyon Road in Santa Fe she’d avoided since her parents’ death. Too many memories, still fresh and painful.
Perhaps she would check into a bed-and-breakfast near Drustan’s home for a while; it would be the compassionate thing to do.
“Where are you going?” she hissed when he swept past her, trailing his hand over a rack of purple running suits. He brushed his hand over a lavender sweatshirt, then stared at a lilac sweatband, ignoring her. She shook her head but, after a moment’s vacillation, decided he should be harmless enough wandering the store while she selected something for him to wear.
She turned her attention to choosing clothing for a man who had the overly developed body of a professional athlete. Although Barrett’s carried a variety of clothing, few men had his height and muscle. She tucked some jeans beneath an arm, eyed a denim button-down, and glanced at his wide shoulders. It’d never fit. A V-neck T-shirt might do, in stretchy cotton, but definitely not white. It would contrast entirely too nicely with his silky dark hair and deep golden skin. The sight of a white tee stretched across his muscular chest might persuade her to catapult her cherry at him.
She felt him return to her. The hair on the back of her neck tingled the moment he stepped beside her, but she refused to glance at him. At the same moment, a feminine purr from the other side of her asked, “May I help you?”
Gwen glanced up from the pile of T-shirts to find a tall, leggy, thirtyish saleslady, librarian glasses perched on her nose above a lushly pursed mouth, looking past her, eyeing the MacKeltar with fascination. “Wearing the old dress, are you now?” she spoke with a lilting burr, ignoring Gwen entirely. “Such a lovely weave. I’ve no’ seen the pattern before.”
Drustan folded his arms across his chest, his body rippling beneath the leather bands. “And you won’t,” he said. “ ‘Tis the Keltar’s alone.”