“We were a night’s ride from Glenagan. My father poured a measure of whiskey in it and then sewed it back together with horsehair.”
Whiskey in an open wound of that size must have been excruciating. “And you rode the next day?”
He shrugged. “We had a pressing need to get back. Sima applied a poultice when I returned and it was nary a problem. I was but a lad and healed quickly.”
He’d released her other wrist, absently rubbing her flesh. Kate needed to get herself out of this situation—both the immediate situation of being flat on her back with Braveheart sending her into a hormonal meltdown and the situation of having lost a century or two. And that meant focusing on something other than this man’s powerful thighs braced on either side of her legs, the shattering slide of his fingers against her skin, his scent, the fact that she was in his bed.
She swallowed and tried to project the decisive, I’m-in-charge voice that worked so well in the ER. “I’d like to get up now that you’ve untied me.”
He shifted off of her without saying anything but his arrogant smile spoke volumes, telling her he knew exactly how he affected her.
She stood and double-checked the knot holding her makeshift toga-kilt in place. “The sooner we can figure out how to get me back to where I belong and out of your hair, the better.”
KATIE WEXFORD CROSSED to stand before the waning fire and dug in her satchel. To be certain, it’d be much simpler if she weren’t here, but he didn’t want her gone. Yet. He’d thought to taunt her when he’d straddled her but he’d been effectively hoisted by his own petard. Her skin had felt like the finest wool beneath his fingertips. Her skin had tasted like a draught of the smoothest whiskey that lit a fire in his belly and left him wanting more.
Even if she was touched. And Hamish seemed to have caught her madness. But ‘twas a fact that the daft were touched by God and it was his job to protect both Kate and Hamish, now more than ever. Best to humor them both until he could decide on a plan of action.
But ‘twas also obvious Kate and Hamish were not strangers. Were it any other man, he’d have them both under guard. But more than once Hamish had proven himself loyal and trustworthy. Twice he’d covered Darach’s back in a skirmish when a dagger finding its home would have made Hamish laird since Darach had no offspring. Nay, perhaps both Kate and Hamish suffered from a fever that had affected their reasoning.
He followed her and tossed more peat onto the fire. The flickering light danced across her naked shoulders and the length of her neck bared by her shorn hair. Her scent, clean and fresh, like the moor on a sunny day, stirred his senses. Mayhap he was in danger of catching the same fever to be affected this way by a daft lass.
Footsteps pounded up the stone stairs and Hamish burst into the room carrying a young lad of no more than five. The lad, son of Anice and Grahame, lay still, his eyes closed, his face blue, water dripping from his hair and body. Hamish’s chest heaved and he spoke between great gulps of air. “I found…the lad…in the burn. Ye’ll have to tell his parents. Anice will near grieve herself to death.”
“Give me the boy,” the woman said, freeing the knot and yanking off the MacTavish plaid as she spoke, leaving herself naked once again.
The woman was truly mad.
“For God’s sake, I’m a doctor. This is what I do. Give him to me. I think I can save him.”
Without waiting and without regard for her naked state, she wrapped the plaid about the child and placed him on the floor. Without pause, she bent and blew a breath into his mouth. Again she repeated the action. The third time around, the lad retched water and blinked his eyes open.
By all that was holy…the lad had been dead and now he was alive. “What kind of magic are you?”
The woman looked at him with a mixture of exasperation and disgust. “It’s not magic. It’s medicine. I told you, I’m a doctor and that’s called resuscitation.” She smoothed a hand over the child’s brow. “He’ll be fine.” She stood and looked at Hamish. “Get him into dry clothes and let him sleep a while.”
Hamish left with the lad and Darach dug out yet another plaid for Katie. He studied her anew as she once again wrapped herself in the red and blue MacTavish colors.
“You saved the lad.” She had truly reacted as a healer.
“It’s what I’m trained to do. Anyone from my time period trained in basic rescue could’ve done the same,” she said.
Could it be possible? Was Hamish speaking the truth? Could it be so that Hamish wasn’t simply daft and the woman had come from the future? It could not be so.
Kate picked her satchel up from the floor where she’d dropped it when Hamish had entered. “I can see you’re still not convinced I am who I say I am.” She dug in the satchel and pulled out a card. “Here. It’s my driver’s license.” She handed him a card and pointed to a date. “There’s my birthdate.” Darach excelled at sums. He was two hundred and sixty-four years older than Kate Wexford.
What the devil was this? It was a portrait of her, yet not a portrait. “What kind of portrait is this?”
“It’s a picture. A photograph.” She shrugged, her palms upright. “I’m not sure when photography was invented. Obviously later than this.”
He studied the card. It didn’t do her justice. Short flaxen hair curled about her face. Wide green eyes with a hint of a frown marring her brow stared at him from the portrait. No smile lifted the corners of her full mouth. It did nothing to capture her wry humor and resilience. “Well, you’re more comely than this. I hope you didn’t pay much for the rendering.”
Her smile stopped just short of a laugh. “Thanks…I think. The DMV isn’t much into glamour shots.”
He had no idea what a DMV or a glamour shot was but he supposed it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was only about two hundred sixty-four years older than her. And he’d never seen anything like what she called a photograph.
He no longer doubted Hamish. He’d only ever known him to speak the truth and it appeared that it was truth rather than madness. Except the notion that he, Darach, needed this woman and that was why she was here. Her scent teased him, as did the gleam of light on her skin. He’d not deny he wanted her, but there was a world of difference between want and need. He’d wanted women and had them, but he’d never needed them.
“It explains much—your strange accent and manner of speech, your hair—but not why you are here.”
Kate glanced up from returning her card to her satchel. “I assure you I don’t want to be here, regardless of what Hamlet said.”
He’d be damned if she didn’t glare at him as if he was to blame for her being here. “It’s Hamish and might I remind you that you’re the one who showed up naked in my bed.”
She tilted her head at a haughty angle and stared down the length of her nose at him. “A gallant man wouldn’t have pointed that out and trust me, I want to be back home.”
He laughed and knew it held a mocking note. He took a step closer to her. “But you were attracted to me in that painting?” He could feel it now, like some force beneath the inky waters of a loch, something deep and strong between them, something potent beneath the surface.
She blinked, looking up at him and in that moment, he recognized an answering flash of acknowledgement in her eyes. “Yes, I’ll admit I was attracted to you when I saw the painting.” She smiled with a sweetness he didn’t trust. “Of course, that was before your personality factored into it.”
Darach threw back his head and laughed. Mayhap she had a strange way with words, but her meaning was clear.