“Great characters. This story has it all: shifters, witches, romance, danger, time travel and a hot highlander…”

an excerpt from

To Love a Highland Dragon

by Ann Gimpel

 

Chapter One

Kheladin listened to the rush of blood as his multi-chambered heart pumped. After eons of nothingness, it was a welcome sound. A cool, sandy floor pressed against his scaled haunches. One whirling eye flickered open, followed by the other.

Where am I? He peered around himself and blew out a sigh, followed by steam, smoke, and fire.

Thanks be to Dewi— Kheladin invoked the blood-red Celtic dragon goddess— I am still in my cave. It smelled right, but I wasna certain.

He rotated his serpent’s head atop his long, sinuous neck. Vertebrae cracked. Kheladin lowered his head and scanned the place he and Lachlan, his human bond mate, had barricaded themselves into. It might have only been days ago, but somehow, it didn’t seem like days, or even months or a few years. His body felt rusty, as if he hadn’t used it in centuries.

How long did I sleep?

He shook his head. Copper scales flew everywhere, clanking against a pile that had formed around him. More than anything, the glittery heap reinforced his belief that he’d been asleep for a very long time. Dragons shed their scales annually. From the looks of the pile circling his body, he’d gone through hundreds of molt cycles. But how? The last thing he remembered was retreating to the cave far beneath Lachlan’s castle and working with the mage to construct strong wards.

Had the black wyvern grown so powerful he’d been able to force his magic into the very heart of Kheladin’s fortress?

If that is true— If we were really his prisoner, why did I finally waken? Is Lachlan still within me?

Stop! I have to take things one at a time.

He returned his gaze to the nooks and crannies of his spacious cave. He’d have to take inventory, but it appeared his treasure hadn’t been disturbed. Kheladin blew a plume of steam upward, followed by an experimental gout of fire. The black wyvern, his sworn enemy since before the Crusades, may have bested him, but he hadn’t gotten his slimy talons on any of Kheladin’s gold or jewels.

He shook out his back feet and shuffled to the pool at one end of the cave where he dipped his snout and drank deeply. The water didn’t taste quite right. It wasn’t poisoned, but it held an undercurrent of metals that had never been there before. Kheladin rolled the liquid around in his mouth. He didn’t recognize much of what he tasted.

The flavors are not familiar because I have been asleep for so long. Aye, that must be it. Part of his mind recoiled; he suspected he was deluding himself.

“We’re awake.” Lachlan’s voice hummed in the dragon’s mind.

“Aye, that we are.”

“How long did we sleep?”

“I doona know.” Water streamed down the dragon’s snout and neck. He knew what would come next; he didn’t have to wait long.

“Let us shift. We think better in my body.” Lachlan urged Kheladin to cede ascendency.

“Ye only think that is true.” Kheladin pushed back. “I was figuring things out afore ye woke.”

“Aye, I’m certain ye were, but…” But what? “Och aye, my brain is thick and fuzzy, as if I havena used it for a verra long time.”

“Mine feels the same.”

The bond allowed only one form at a time. Since they were in Kheladin’s body, he still had the upper hand; the dragon didn’t think Lachlan was strong enough to force a shift without his help. There’d been a time when he could have but not now.

Was it safe to venture above ground? Kheladin recalled the last day he’d seen the sun. After a vicious battle in the great room of Lachlan’s castle, they’d retreated to his cave and taken their dragon form as a final resort. Rhukon, the black wyvern, had pretended he wanted peace. He’d come with an envoy that had turned out to be a retinue of heavily armed men…

Both he and Lachlan had expected Rhukon to follow them underground. Kheladin’s last thought before nothingness descended had been amazement their enemy hadn’t pursued them. Hmph. He did come after us but with magic. Magic strong enough to penetrate our wards.

“Aye, and I was just thinking the same thing,” Lachlan sniped in a vexed tone.

“We trusted him,” Kheladin snarled. “More the fools we were. We should have known.” Despite drinking, his throat was still raw. He sucked more water down and fought rising anger at himself for being gullible. Even if Lachlan hadn’t known better, he should have. His stomach cramped from hunger.

Kheladin debated the wisdom of making his way through the warren of tunnels leading to the surface in dragon form. There had always been far more humans than dragons. Mayhap it would be wiser to accede to Lachlan’s wishes before they crept from their underground lair to rejoin the world of men.

“Grand idea.” Lachlan’s response was instantaneous, as was his first stab at shifting.

It took half a dozen attempts. Kheladin was far weaker than he’d imagined and Lachlan so feeble he was almost an impediment. Finally, once a shower of scales cleared, Lachlan’s emaciated body stood barefoot and naked in the cave.

***

Lacking the sharp night vision he enjoyed as a dragon, because his magic was so diminished, he kindled a mage light and glanced down at himself. Ribs pressed against his flesh, and a full beard extended halfway down his chest. Turning his head to both sides, he saw shoulder blades so sharp he was surprised they didn’t puncture his skin. Tawny hair fell in tangles past his waist. The only thing he couldn’t see was his eyes. Absent a glass, he was certain they were the same crystal-clear emerald color they’d always been.

Lachlan stumbled across the cave to a chest where he kept clothing. Dragons didn’t need such silly accoutrements; humans did. He sucked in a harsh breath. The wooden chest was falling to ruin. He tilted the lid against a wall; it canted to one side. Many of his clothes had moldered into unusable rags, but items toward the bottom had fared better. He found a cream-colored linen shirt with long, flowing sleeves, a black and green plaid embroidered with the insignia of his house—a dragon in flight—and soft, deerskin boots that laced to his knees.

He slid the shirt over his head and wrapped the plaid around himself, taking care to wind the tartan so its telltale insignia was hidden in its folds. Who knew if the black wyvern—or his agents—lurked near the mouth of the cave? Lachlan bent to lace his boots. A crimson cloak with only a few moth holes completed his outfit. He finger-combed his hair and smoothed his unruly beard. “Good God, but I must look a fright,” he muttered. “Mayhap I can sneak into my castle and set things aright afore anyone sees me. Surely whichever of my kinsmen are inhabiting the castle will be glad the master of the house has finally returned.”

Lachlan worked on bolstering a confidence he was far from feeling. He’d nearly made it to the end of the cave, where a rock-strewn path led upward, when he doubled back to get a sword and scabbard—just in case things weren’t as sanguine as he hoped. He located a thigh sheath and a short dagger as well, fumbling to attach them beneath his kilt. Underway once again, he hadn’t made it very far along the upward-sloping tunnel that ended at a well-hidden opening not far from the postern gate of his castle, when he ran into rocks littering the way.

He worked his way around progressively larger boulders until he came to a huge one that totally blocked the tunnel. Lachlan stared at it in disbelief. When had that happened? In all the time he’d been using these passageways, they’d never been blocked by rock fall. If he weren’t so weak, summoning magic to shove the rock over enough to allow him to pass wouldn’t be a problem. As it was, simply walking uphill proved a challenge.

He pinched the bridge of his nose between a grimy thumb and forefinger. His mage light weakened.

If I can’t even keep a light going, how in the goddess’ name will I be able to move that rock?

Lachlan hunkered next to the boulder and let his light die while he ran possibilities through his head. His stomach growled and clenched in hunger. Had he come through however much time had passed to die like a dog of starvation in his own cave?

“No, by God.” He slammed a fist against the boulder. The air sizzled. Magic. The rock was illusion. Not real.

Counter spell. I need the counter spell.

Maybe I don’t. He stood, took a deep breath, and walked into the huge rock. The air did more than sizzle; it flamed. If he’d been human, it would have burned him, but dragons were impervious to fire, as were dragon shifters. Lachlan waltzed through the rock, cursing Rhukon as he went. Five more boulders blocked his tunnel, each more charged with magic than the last.

Finally, sweating and cursing, he rounded the last curve; the air ahead lightened. He wanted to throw himself on the ground and screech his triumph.

Not a good idea.

“Let me out. Ye have no idea what we’ll find.”

Kheladin’s voice in his mind was welcome but the idea wasn’t. “Ye are right. Because we have no idea what is out there, we stay in my skin until we are certain. We can hide in this form far more easily than we can in yours.”

“Since when did we begin hiding?” The dragon sounded outraged.

“Our magic is weak.” Lachlan adopted a placating tone. “’Tis prudent to be cautious until it fully recovers.”

“No dragon would ever say such a thing.” Deep, fiery frustration rolled off Kheladin.

Steam belched from Lachlan’s mouth. “Stop that,” he hissed, but his mind voice was all but obliterated by wry dragon laughter.

“Why? I find it amusing that ye think an eight foot tall dragon with elegant copper scales and handsome, green eyes would be difficult to sequester. A hesitation. “And infuriating that we need to conceal ourselves at all. Need I remind you we’re warriors?”

“Quite taken with yourself, eh?” Lachlan sidestepped the issue of hiding; he didn’t want to discuss it further and risk being goaded into something unwise. Kheladin chuckled and pushed more steam through Lachlan’s mouth, punctuated by a few flames.

Lost in a sudden rush of memories, Lachlan slowed his pace. As a mage, he would have lived hundreds of years, but bonded to a dragon, he’d live forever. In preparation, he’d studied long years with Aether, a wizard and dragon shifter himself. Along the way, Lachlan had forsaken much—a wife and bairns, for starters, for what woman would put up with a husband who was so rarely at home?—to bond with a dragon, forming their partnership. Once Lachlan’s magic was finally strong enough, there’d been the niggling problem of locating that special dragon willing to join its life with his.

Because the bond conferred immortality on both the dragon and their human partner, dragons were notoriously picky. After all, dragon and mage would be welded through eternity. The magic could be undone, but the price was high: mages were stripped of power and their dragon mates lost much of theirs, too, as the bond unraveled. Lachlan had hunted for over a hundred years before finding Kheladin. The pairing had been instantaneous on both sides. He’d just settled in with his dragon, and was about to hunt down a wife to grace his castle, when the black wyvern had attacked.

“What are ye waiting for?” Kheladin sounded testy. “Daydreaming is a worthless pursuit. My grandmother is two thousand years old, and she moves faster than you.”

Lachlan snorted. He didn’t bother to explain there wasn’t much point in jumping through the opening in the gorse and thistle bushes and right into Rhukon’s arms. An unusual whirring filled the air, like the noisiest beehive he’d ever heard. His heart sped up, but the sound receded. “What the hell was that?” he muttered and made his way closer to the world outside his cave.

Finally at the end of the tunnel, Lachlan stepped to the opening, shoved some overgrown bushes out of the way, and peered through. What he saw was so unbelievable, he squeezed his eyes tight shut, opened them, and looked again. Unfortunately, nothing had changed. Worse, an ungainly, shiny cylinder roared past, making the same whirring noise he’d puzzled over moments before. He fell backward into the cave, breath harsh in his throat, and landed on his rump. Not only was the postern gate no longer there, neither was his castle. A long, unattractive row of attached structures stood in its stead.

“Holy godhead. What do I do now?”

“We go out there and find something to eat,” the dragon growled.

Lachlan gritted his teeth together. Kheladin had a good point. It was hard to think on an empty stomach.

“Here I was worried about Rhukon. At least I understood him. I fear whatever lies in wait for us will require all our skill.”

“Ye were never a coward. It is why I allowed the bond. Get moving.”

The dragon’s words settled him. Ashamed of his indecisiveness, Lachlan got to his feet, brushed dirt off his plaid, and worked his way through the bushes hiding the cave’s entrance. As he untangled stickers from the finely spun wool of his cloak and his plaid, he gawked at a very different world from the one he’d left. There wasn’t a field—or an animal—in sight. Roadways paved with something other than dirt and stones were punctuated by structures so numerous, they made him dizzy. The hideous incursion onto his lands stretched in every direction. Lachlan balled his hands into fists. He’d find out what had happened, by God. When he did, he’d make whoever had erected all those abominations take them down.

An occasional person walked by in the distance. They shocked him even more than the buildings and roads. For starters, the males weren’t wearing plaids, so there was no way to tell their clan. Females were immodestly covered. Many sported bare legs and breeks so tight he saw the separation between their ass cheeks. Lachlan’s groin stirred, cock hardening. Were the lassies no longer engaging in modesty or subterfuge and simply asking to be fucked? Or was this some new garb that befit a new era?

He detached the last thorn, finally clear of the thicket of sticker bushes. Where could he find a market with vendors? Did market day even still exist in this strange environment?

“Holy crap! A kilt, and an old-fashioned one at that. Tad bit early in the day for a costume ball, isn’t it?” A rich female voice laced with amusement, sounded behind him.

Lachlan spun, hands raised to call magic. He stopped dead once his gaze settled on a lass nearly as tall as himself, which meant she was close to six feet. She turned so she faced him squarely. Bare legs emerged from torn fabric that stopped just south of her female parts. Full breasts strained against scraps of material attached to strings tied around her neck and back. Her feet were encased in a few straps of leather. Long, blonde hair eddied around her, the color of sheaves of summer wheat.

His cock jumped to attention. His hands itched to make a grab for her breasts or her ass. She had an amazing ass: round and high and tight. What was expected of him? The lass was dressed in such a way as to invite him to simply tear what passed for breeks aside and enter her. Had times changed so drastically that women provoked men into public sex? He glanced about, half expecting to see couples having it off with one another willy-nilly.

“Well,” she urged. “Cat got your tongue?” She placed her hands on her hips. The motion stretched the tiny bits of flowered fabric that barely covered her nipples still further.

Lachlan bowed formally, straightened, and waited for her to hold out a hand for him to kiss. “I am Lachlan Moncrieffe, my lady. It is a pleasure to—”

She erupted into laughter—and didn’t hold out her hand. “I’m Maggie,” she managed between gouts of mirth. “What are you? A throwback to medieval times? You can drop the Sir Galahad routine.”

Lachlan felt his face heat. “I fear I do not understand the cause of your merriment … my lady.”

Maggie rolled her midnight blue eyes. “Oh, brother. Did you escape from a mental hospital? Nah, you’d be in pajamas then, not those fancy duds.” She dropped her hands to her sides and started to walk past him.

“No. Wait. Please, wait.” Lachlan cringed at the whining tone in his voice. The dragon was correct that the Moncrieffe was a proud house. They bowed to no one.

She eyed him askance. “What?”

“I am a stranger in this town.” He winced at the lie. Once upon a time, he’d been master of these lands. Apparently that time had long since passed. “I am footsore and hungry. Where might I find victuals and ale?”

Her eyes widened. Finely arched blonde brows drew together over a straight nose dotted by a few freckles. “Victuals and ale,” she repeated disbelievingly.

“Aye. Food and drink, in the common vernacular.”

“Oh, I understood you well enough,” Maggie murmured. “Your words, anyway. Your accent’s a bit off.” His stomach growled again, embarrassingly loud. “Guess you weren’t kidding about being hungry.” She eyed him appraisingly. “Do you have any money?”

Money. Too late he thought of the piles of gold coins and priceless gems lying on the floor of Kheladin’s cave. In the world he’d left, his word had been as good as his gold. He opened his mouth, but she waved him to silence. “I’ll stand you for a pint and some fish and chips. You can treat me next time.”

He heard her mutter, “Yeah right,” under her breath as she curled a hand around his arm and tugged. “Come on. I have a couple of hours and then I’ve got to go to work. I’m due in at three today.”

Lachlan trotted along next to her. She let go of him like he was a viper when he tried to close a hand over the one she’d laid so casually on his person. He cleared his throat and wondered what he could safely ask that wouldn’t give his secrets away. He could scarcely believe this alien landscape was Scotland, but if he asked what country they were in, or what year it was, she’d think him mad. He wondered if the black wyvern had used some diabolical dark magic to transport his cave to another locale, and then thought better of it. Even Rhukon wasn’t that powerful.

“In here.” She pointed to a door beneath a flashing sigil. He gawked at it. One minute it was red, the next blue, the next green, illuminating the word Open. What manner of magic was this? “Don’t tell me you have temporal lobe epilepsy.” She stared at him. “It’s only a neon sign. It doesn’t bite. Move on through the door. There’s food on the other side,” she added slyly.

Feeling like a rube, Lachlan searched for a latch, didn’t find one, and pushed his shoulder against the door. It opened, and he held it with a hand so Maggie could enter first. “After you, my lady,” he murmured.

“Stop that.” She spoke into his ear as she went past. “No more my ladies. Got it?”

“I think so.” He followed her into a low ceilinged room lined with wooden planks. It was the first thing that looked familiar. Parts of it, anyway. Men—kilt-less men—sat at the bar, hefting glasses and chatting. The tables were empty.

“What’ll it be, Mags?” a man with a towel tied around his waist called from behind the bar.

“Couple of pints and two of today’s special. Come to think of it,” she eyed Lachlan, “make that three of the special.”

“May I inquire just what the special is?” Lachlan asked, thinking he might want to order something different.

Maggie waved a hand at a black board suspended over the bar. “You can read?”

“Of course.” He resented the inference he might be uneducated but swallowed back harsh words.

“Excellent. Then move.” She shoved her body into his in a distressingly familiar way for such a communal location. Not that he wouldn’t have enjoyed the contact if they were alone and he were free to take advantage of it… “All the way to the back,” she hissed into his ear. “That way if you slip up, no one will hear.”

He bristled. Lachlan Moncrieffe did not sit in the back of any establishment. He was always given a choice table near the center of things. He opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it.

She scooped an armful of flattened scrolls off the bar before following him to the back of the room. Once there, she dumped them onto the table between them. He wanted to ask what they were but decided he should pretend to know. He turned the top sheaf of papers toward him and scanned the close-spaced print. Many of the words were unfamiliar, but what leapt off the page was The Inverness Courier and presumably the current date: June 10, 2012.

It had been 1683 when Rhukon had chivied him into the dragon’s cave. Three-hundred twenty-nine years, give or take a month or two. At least he was still in Inverness—for all the good it did him.

“You look as if you just saw a ghost.” Maggie spoke quietly.

“No. I am quite fine. Thank you for inquiring … my, er…” His voice trailed off.

“Good.” She nodded approvingly. “You’re learning.” The bartender slapped two mugs of ale on the scarred wooden table.

“On your tab, Mags?” he asked.

She nodded. “Except you owe me so much, you’ll never catch up.”

Lachlan took a sip of what turned out to be weak ale. It wasn’t half bad but could have stood an infusion of bitters. He puzzled over what Maggie meant. Why would the barkeep owe her? His nostrils flared. She must work at the establishment—probably as a damsel of ill repute from the looks of her. Mayhap, she hadn’t been paid her share of whatever she earned in quite some time.

Protectiveness flared deep inside him. Maggie should not have to earn her way lying on her back. He’d see to it she had a more seemly position.

Aye, once I find my way around this bizarre new world. Money wouldn’t be a problem, but changing four-hundred-year-old gold coins into today’s tender might be. Surely there were still banks that might accomplish something like that.

One thing at a time, he reminded himself.

“So.” She skewered him with her blue gaze—Norse eyes if he’d ever seen a set—and took a sip from her mug. “What did you see in the newspaper that upset you so much?”

“Nothing.” He tried for an offhand tone.

“Bullshit,” she said succinctly. “I’m a doctor. A psychiatrist. I read people’s faces quite well, and you look as if you’re perilously close to going into shock on me.”

Chapter Two

Margaret Melissa Hibbins looked appraisingly at the man seated across the table from her. She’d hesitated before speaking to him, but he exuded such a raw sexuality, she’d found it impossible not to say something. Once they’d begun talking, it had been a struggle not to drag him behind an empty building, wrap her legs around his waist, and find out what was under that kilt of his.

Maggie tried to rein in her imagination. So what if he looked like a homeless vagabond and she hadn’t been laid in a couple of years? Lachlan was a stranger, but a damned attractive one in spite of his unkempt appearance. More important, though, he needed…something. Maybe she could help. Back down Dr. Hibbins, champion of the underdog. Yup, give me your tired, your poor… What a load of shit. He’s the best-looking man I’ve ever seen. Makes the altruism argument fly right out the window. Before she could catch herself, half a snort escaped.

Lachlan’s head snapped up from where he’d been studying the daily rag, his lips moving as if reading were difficult for him. She shook her head. “Sorry, didn’t mean a thing by it. My imagination gets away with me.”

He drained half the mug of ale and returned to reading the paper. She took advantage of his apparent inattention to her and looked at him carefully, starting with his unkempt tawny hair, rather like a lion’s mane. Though his eyes were downcast, she’d seen them earlier. An unusual shade of pure, deep green, they had golden flecks about the irises. High, sculpted cheekbones led to a strong jaw. What she could see of it, anyway, beneath his beard. His nose was straight; his skin a coppery gold. He hadn’t smiled, but the teeth she’d seen were very straight and very white.

Maybe he’s not as destitute as I thought. He’s been able to afford dental care.

Her gaze strayed lower, to broad shoulders encased in a shirt and old-style kilt where part of the material wrapped about his upper torso. A cape hung from his shoulders. The sword suspended from his slender waist looked chillingly real. Buff-colored, leather boots laced up the sides and disappeared beneath his kilt. She wanted to reach out and touch the fabric. It looked like an unbelievably fine wool, soft and thick, woven into a green and black plaid.

The bartender sashayed over with a tray and dropped it onto their table. “Here ya go, Mags.”

She inhaled the sharp odors of vinegar-soaked fried cod topped with crisp potatoes and smiled. “Thanks.”

Lachlan pushed the papers to one side and reached for one of the plates. Without bothering to pick up a fork or knife, he drew a short dagger from somewhere beneath his kilt, stabbed a piece of fish, and stuffed it into his mouth whole. He chewed and swallowed. “Are ye not planning to eat?” he asked. “I should have waited for you afore beginning. I am most humbly sorry.”

“It’s all right. You go on ahead.”

For the next few minutes, he shoveled fish and chips into his mouth like a starving man, only slowing after the first two plates were empty. He polished the rest of his ale. “Barkeep,” he cried in a clear, ringing voice. “Another.”

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. “Ah, 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; 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 is 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, wiped grease from his fingers, and 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.”

His eyes narrowed. “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 that, right off the bat.”

“States? Which states might those be?” He looked genuinely confused, forehead crinkled 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 had learned to trust her hunches long before she’d gone to medical school. She came from a long family of witches, starting with one who’d been burned at the stake in Salem in the sixteen hundreds. Her living relatives had told her she had untapped talent should she ever choose to develop it. In truth, they’d been furious when she’d 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, swiped a finger across its screen, and brought up the message menu while watching Lachlan out of the corners of her eyes. Just as she suspected, 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 is 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. His jaw set in a hard line. “While I am certain I could use a barber, I refuse to wear other than my plaid. It tells others I am 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’d 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 into 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 are right,” Lachlan said. “’Twould be prudent for us to leave this establishment afore they go for my throat and I am 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, 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 have 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 for that, they needed 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, 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, closed it, and shook his head. Moments later, he tried again. “Ye are 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 and laid 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; 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 incredibly 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 said, 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; 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.”

“Hmph. 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, 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 have 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, 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.”

His brows drew together. “It is not 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 had 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, and forged ahead, 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 have 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 of 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 is 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.”

“But 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, 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, spun her to face him, and angled 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 pressed against his chest nearly drove him mad.

Breaking their kiss, 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 said were cars. “I only see one red one, 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 her keys from her bag and hit the clicker. “Go ahead, get in.” She motioned to the door on the opposite 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; a car sped past, scant inches from his body. They are just like carriages, he tried to tell himself as he gulped 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 rang loud in his ears. “Hang on,” she murmured. “This will seem strange to you, but here we go. Whatever you do, do not open your door until the car stops, no matter how nervous this makes you.”

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

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

“How far can one of these 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. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Could he trust this woman? This witch? She could have closed her mind to him—not that it would have kept him out—but she hadn’t even tried. Questions tumbled through his overburdened brain. How could he have slept so long yet be relatively untouched? What was he going to do to find Rhukon? For that matter, was Rhukon still after him?

Because his mind spun like an out-of-control top, he shifted to things he’d need to know so he wouldn’t appear a total dolt. What did text mean or page? What was this gasoline that powered cars? How did men wage war without horses?

“Eight hundred miles in a day,” he muttered. “That canna be.”

“Och aye,” Maggie aped a Scottish brogue, “but ’tis.”

“Has everything changed so much, then?” he murmured.

“Yes, and especially since 1900.”

Lachlan shook his head. He reached inward for Kheladin, but the dragon was silent, probably as disconcerted as he was. Were there dragons in this world? Or had they all died out? He was enticed with the woman, wanted her fiercely, but she’d spoken true when she’d said her knowledge would be more useful to him than her body.

Well now, there’s no reason why I canna have both. “Tell me about 2012.”

“It might be better if you ask me questions.” She briefly laid a hand over one of his and squeezed.

“I doona know where to begin.”

“Where did you come from?”

He inhaled sharply, reluctant to disclose what might be used against him.

“Lachlan.” She squeezed his hand again. “I will never hurt you. I need information to help you.”

Her words held the ring of truth when he tested them with his magic. “The place where ye found me was verra close to where my castle used to stand. I…”

“Keep going,” she urged. “Just let the words come. We have a little time before we get to my flat.”

He took stock of just what to tell her. She didn’t need to know about Kheladin or his dragon-shifter magic or the cave. If things went to hell, it was the only place he could retreat that he could fortify with magic.

She looked at him as if she could read his mind. Who knew with witches? They all had at least one strong suit; mayhap that was hers. Lachlan shuttered his thoughts. His magic was far stronger than hers. Even a tiny trickle would be more than adequate to keep her from his mind.

“What year—?” she began

He waved her to silence. “Everything is so new,” he smiled disarmingly, “I fear ’tis a fair challenge to know just where to begin. In 1683 I had an, um, altercation with a powerful warlock. He ensorcelled me.”

“Ensorcelled, as in put you to sleep?”

“Aye. I just wakened a few hours ago.”

Maggie’s breath whistled from between her teeth. She pulled the car into a large square area off the roadway and placed it next to another. “We’re here,” she said brusquely. He grappled with the side of the car door, hunting for the trick to make it spring open. “Never mind. I’ll come round and let you out.”

His sword clanked loudly against the car when he struggled to unfold his long legs and get out. “You really don’t need that,” she said.

He raised an eyebrow and stood. “How would I defend us? Is this a world where magic is common? Ye said ye had a witchy grannie.”

“Come on.” She crooked a finger. “We’re better off talking inside.”

He followed her into a rambling grey stone building with 1846 carved over the lintel. It looked as if it had once been a manor house. Mayhap the lass had more in the way of resources than he imagined if she could afford such a place. They climbed to the second floor. It confused him. Why would she not receive him in the great room or a parlor?

Maggie pulled a key from her bag and inserted it into the lockset on a peeling, oak door. “Why do ye keep your bedchamber locked, lass, but not the house proper?”

“It’s not just my bedroom. This is where I live.” She pushed the door open and gestured him inside. “This was a manor house once upon a time. The family that owns it broke it up into four apartments with a common area downstairs that any of the tenants can use if they want.”

“The family must have fallen on hard times indeed to rent out their ancestral home to strangers,” he said softly.

“Not necessarily. The house was quite a way out of town. The story I was told, the owners didn’t want to live here anymore. Think they tried to sell it, didn’t get any takers, and so turned it into what it is today.”

Lachlan’s brow creased. No matter what Maggie said, giving up one’s home meant the next generation would have nowhere to live. It was a truly draconian move, likely driven by something the lass didn’t know about. He looked around, curious. Rather than a bedchamber, he saw a small, neat, sitting room with a leather couch and a puffy, soft-looking chair covered in flowered fabric. Something he couldn’t identify sat on a table; it looked like a mirror, but its surface was black. Books overflowed onto every available surface. He didn’t see any scrolls.

The door snicked shut behind him. He heard the thunk of a lock falling into place.

“There.” She walked around him and headed for the far end of the room. He recognized a table and chairs but not much else. “Can I make you some tea?”

“Tea is a woman’s drink, lass. Have ye a stiff ale, or better still, whiskey?”

Maggie spun and faced him. “I have both, but it’s not evening yet.”

He frowned. “What? Is this some kind of rule? No spirits except weak beer until after dark?” He chuckled at the absurdity of it.

She cocked her head to one side. “There’s a saying, It’s always five o’clock somewhere.”

“And that means?”

“People use it as an excuse to drink whenever they want, because five at night is supposedly a safe time to begin drinking.”

“I doona understand. Safe for whom?”

“It doesn’t matter. Sit.” She waved her hands at the couch.

“Will ye be sitting next to me?” he inquired archly.

“Eventually. I’m going to make myself a cup of tea. You know,” she winked at him, “that women’s drink. And I’m going to make myself a sandwich.”

“What is a sandwich?”

“Bread, meat, cheese, mayonnaise—”

“Might ye make one for me as well?”

Maggie threw back her head and laughed. “I suppose after over three hundred years asleep, you’d be hungry. Christ! You’re like the male equivalent of Sleeping Beauty.”

“I doona understand.”

“Look, if you don’t want to sit, come on into the kitchen. We can chat while I make us something to eat. Sleeping Beauty is a children’s story about a princess who was ensorcelled and slept for a hundred years.”

“What wakens her?”

“A handsome prince finds her and kisses her.”

“Aye. At least some things havena changed—and likely never will.” He stepped to her side, watching as she drew items from a small cold box, rather like a spring room, filled a kettle, and set it on the stove. Flames leapt when she twisted a dial.

Lachlan nodded to himself. Life had certainly improved if you didn’t have to light a fire to cook over and tend the kindling so it either didn’t go out or blaze so brightly the food burned. Not having to retreat outside to the spring house or the buttery for cold items was another improvement. “Where is the pump?” He tapped the kitchen faucet.

She sliced bread from a loaf and laid four pieces on the counter. “Let’s see,” she mused. “Where to begin. There’s a city water system. Water comes to houses through underground pipes. All I have to do is turn the faucet.” Her eyes sparkled. “Put your hand under this.” She flipped a lever.

Though he tried for equanimity, Lachlan felt his eyes widen. “’Tis hot.” He drew his hand back. “Ye doona have to heat bath water over a stove?”

Maggie shook her head and returned to the bread, spreading something on it. “Nope. Why don’t you go check out the bathroom while I finish the sandwiches? I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

Lachlan looked about. Bathroom should mean a room where a bathing tub was located. In poorer homes that was always the kitchen, usually behind a curtained alcove, yet he didn’t see any hidden nooks.

“Go back to the living room and down the hall. It’s the door on your right.”

He was reluctant to leave her side. There was something soothing about standing next to Maggie, and exciting, too. He felt he’d known her far longer than only a few hours.

Almost as if she could read his thoughts, she said, “Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.”

He bent his head, brushed his lips against her neck, and followed her directions toward the bathroom. It was dark in the hall, so he called his mage light.

“What have ye gotten us into?” Kheladin hissed deep in his mind.

“Do ye have any better ideas? We slept for better than three hundred years. The world is vastly different. I must have information afore we can plot a course.”

“Hmph,” the dragon snorted. Lachlan swallowed back steam that sat just at the back of his throat. “I could overfly—”

“No. I doona believe there are any dragons left. I havena asked the lass about modern weaponry, but ’tis likely something exists that could blow you out of the sky. And me right along with you.”

“What do ye mean, no dragons left?”

Lachlan swallowed hard. There was so much about the year 2012 that troubled him, he hadn’t dissected each one. And he wasn’t going to now. The most important thing was seeing if Rhukon were still a threat. “I havena seen any,” Lachlan said cautiously. “It may mean nothing, yet I dinna sense dragon energy anywhere.”

“Ye must cede to my form, so we may look.” Compulsion ran strong beneath Kheladin’s frantic words.

Lachlan fought the dragon’s magic. He clamped his jaw firmly shut. “Soon. We need to know more afore we take unnecessary risks.” He stood in the hallway, every muscle tense, waiting. After long moments, the dragon backed down, grumbling that there wasn’t space for him.

Lachlan exhaled sharply and continued down the short corridor, not wanting to think about what it meant if the dragons were truly gone. He turned a doorknob and walked into a tiled room with a bathtub, a sink, and what had to be a commode, except there was no odor, and it was filled with what looked like water. Experimentally, he hiked his kilt to the side, took hold of his cock, and pissed into the basin.

Lachlan frowned and looked at the commode. A pull chain ran down from a white box mounted on the wall behind it. He pulled the chain and jumped back as water whooshed out of the commode only to be replaced with new. He grinned. Clever, but where did the piss and shit go? He’d have to ask the lass.

He stepped to the sink and turned first one tap and then the other. One discharged hot water, the other cold. Mayhap living in this era willna be quite so bad as I’d feared. Lachlan grimaced. He was focusing on small things to avoid thinking about the loss of a way of life that had been precious. Friends, family, his castle, even his servants were lost to him.

“Lachlan. Your sandwich is ready.”

“Coming, lass.” He turned his mind to Kheladin. “We willna be telling her about you. Not yet, anyway, so no smoke, steam, or fire.”

“Fine by me. Do us both a favor and bed the lass. She’s nearly begging for it, and ’twill clear our heads to search for Rhukon.”

Lachlan walked slowly down the hall. He extinguished the magic powering his light before he emerged from behind the curtain that separated the hall from the front room. Maggie sat at the table. He pulled out the empty chair and joined her.

She smiled around a mouthful of sandwich. “What did you think?”

“Of the garderobe?”

She nodded. “I’d forgotten they used to be called that, but didn’t those just have toilets