Highlander's Portrait Read online

  As he stared, the main Stone called to him, brightening and humming as if in welcome, even though Eoin hadn’t touched it. He had a strong link to the Stones and had been able to open them from the first time he’d tried, amazing both his grandfather and cousin.

  “I know ’tis been a while since we’ve seen each other,” he murmured. He couldn’t caress the Stone, or the others, because the pattern required to open them was instinct, and he wasn’t ready to go home.

  He clutched the medallion that hung low on his chest on a leather strap. Korinna had given it to him and disguised the natural magic inside it with the MacLeod seal affixed on the outside. Its properties prevented the suffering effects of hundreds of years of time travel that hit a person without it.

  Before owning it, Eoin had woken time and again, wandering naked on the beach, disoriented from navigating the rift in time, and even though the Flag’s magic always reached out and righted him, time travel was much preferred with the medallion.

  He closed his eyes and took a breath. Needed to concentrate on the Faery Flag. He pictured himself holding it, caressing the silky fabric and running it through his fingers. It was made of the softest material, Fae in origin, and older than even his Fae great-grandmother.

  Legend was, it’d saved his clan from disaster two times, and it only had one more wish left in it. He didn’t know what he believed about that, since the supposed saviors were Fae, and most of the race hated humans, but the Flag definitely had magical properties.

  It was a MacLeod treasure and he’d willingly given it away.

  Eoin winced. His ancestors would never forgive him. He had to get it back, and somehow, this time, keep it. Prevent himself from having to traipse through time after it and maybe prevent the need for a new Guardian in the future. That would solve the dissipating magic worry.

  The Flag’s magic called to him with only minimal concentration.

  Forcing another breath, he locked onto it with his mind, allowing his link to center him and fill in the blanks his mind needed to get to it, sight unseen.

  “I have ye,” he whispered.

  Eoin smiled and blinked.

  Chapter Four

  Ashlyn winced at the din in the small, crowded pub. She wanted to go outside—or go back to their cottage. The air was stale, like old whiskey and the scent of beer swirled around as tangible particles. The building was old, and it was as if she could smell the wood supports and exposed ceiling beams, maybe even the stone walls, too.

  Somehow that had appeal, as much as she didn’t want to admit it. It helped, but didn’t overcome the odor of too many bodies in a confined space, or the smoke in the place. Sweat, and some mustiness clung to everything, also tainting the air.

  There were more cigars than cigarettes, but the various clouds still made her hold her breath when they drifted her way.

  There was a soccer game playing on the three flat screen TVs that hung on the walls, and from time to time shouts or cheers from the mostly male patrons. Curses too, when things didn’t go the favored team’s way.

  Scots took their football seriously.

  Kate was in her element, of course, flirting with the bartender. Ashlyn had to hand it to her; he was pretty hot, although he didn’t have Eoin MacLeod’s sapphire eyes.

  Oh my God. Seriously?

  She resisted looking down at her bag, or worse, feeling around inside to convince herself the painting of the laird was still present and accounted for. Undamaged and with her. Like she needed it. After chiding herself some more, she looked back at the bartender.

  His hair was brown and he was tall. His black tee, emblazoned with the pub’s logo, clung to his pecs and hinted at hidden abs, it was so tight. His biceps were nice, almost too much for that clinging shirt. He had dimples, to boot. The accent was a magnet, and her bestie was fairly hanging on everything the dude said as they laughed and talked.

  He was definitely romance novel hero material.

  She’s still not kicking me out of our damn room.

  Ashlyn wrinkled her nose when a puff of smoke floated into her face. Her eyes watered and she blinked, clutching her bag tighter on her lap.

  The smoking man passed too close for comfort, hollering at the bartender for a beer. His words slurred; it obviously wasn’t his first. He sounded German, so he was likely another tourist like her, but it didn’t give him any manners. She leaned forward until the edge of the bar bit into her tummy.

  Soon, Mr. Hot-Barkeep had done his bidding and he retreated. Then hottie-Scottie went back to Kate, dimples showing before her friend had even spoken again.

  Ugh.

  Pretty soon, Kate was going to be in what-time-do-you-get-off territory.

  Still not sock-on-the-dooring me.

  Ashlyn really needed some air. Her bestie was so involved in getting her flirt on, she wouldn’t notice if she slipped out, so she’d do just that.

  She slid off the barstool and turned, running smackdab into a body. Her cheek hit a chest and she winced, because it was hard enough to be a shoulder. Stinging shot up her jaw and she fought the urge to close her eyes or call out.

  Damn, that hurt!

  She felt herself wobble, but she couldn’t drop her bag to keep from falling on her ass. She wouldn’t risk the fragile painting inside.

  A large hand swallowed her upper arm, steadying her.

  The apology died on her lips when she looked up. Her mouth hung open, but she snapped it shut as soon it occurred to her she was staring, dumbfounded.

  “I apologize. Are ye well?” The deep voice rushed over her like a caress, and she shivered in his grip.

  He looks just like…

  Ashlyn swallowed and blinked. Had to be in her head. It wasn’t real.

  Can’t be real.

  Maybe she’d hit his chest hard enough to scramble her brains.

  “Lass?”

  There it was. The word. Sounded just like she’d known it would.

  She jumped, snapping back into her skin. Get it together. Now. “I-I-I’m fine. Thanks for catching me.”

  He nodded, but his gaze—one that matched the royal blue T-shirt he wore—studied her face. “Yer American?” He released his hold on her, and she was cold without his touch.

  She concentrated on his accent. It was just as gorgeous as the bartender’s but in a different way. Unrefined, a true brogue. It sounded old. Like it would’ve years ago. Like in one of her books. Way more appealing than the hot barkeep’s.

  He was looking at her expectantly.

  Duh, he asked you a question. “Yes, I am,” Ashlyn managed, but it was fragmented.

  If she wasn’t seeing things, how could the man before her look that much like her painting? She had to be misremembering the face she’d spent the last few hours memorizing. The man she’d based her new hero on, who’d lived three hundred years ago. Her character was too fresh in her thoughts.

  This guy…it just couldn’t be real. Had to be a mind trick, but it wasn’t like she could dig out the laird’s image to compare right there. He’d think she was crazy.

  He was super tall—had to be six-five or six-six, and her cheek already knew the muscles of his clinging tee were real. He had a leather necklace on, but whatever hung from it was tucked into his shirt. It was round though; she could see the outline of it.

  The laird-lookalike was wearing jeans, and even though Ashlyn couldn’t see his ass, instinct told her he had no issue filling them out. She wanted to see.

  “You look like—” she blurted, then slapped her hand over her mouth, keeping, ‘my painting,’ from popping out. She shot a glance over her shoulder at Kate, but her bestie was still deep in conversation with the bartender. Ashlyn pulled her bag into her chest and wrapped her arms around it. As if the man would grab it and see the image of Eoin MacLeod.

  “Aye?” he prompted.

  She shook her head. However, she couldn’t help but study the planes of his face. He was chiseled there, like the rest of him; high cheekbones, strong j
awline that had a five o’clock shadow creeping over his clear skin. So handsome it took her breath. Her mouth went dry, her tongue plastered to the roof of her mouth.

  He was hot.

  Way hotter than Mr. Barkeep.

  She wanted to run her fingers over his cheeks. Trace his lines.

  The resemblance to Eoin MacLeod was uncanny, except this man’s dark hair looked a little shorter than the laird’s in the painting. The man before her had a shaggy look, his sable locks teasing above his shoulders. Messy, but appealing.

  She didn’t really like guys with long hair—outside her books, of course—but this one pulled it off. As if he’d look odd with it all cut off. Ashlyn wanted to bury her hands in it, see if it was as soft as it looked.

  He was staring; but so was she.

  Double embarrassment. Perfect.

  Heat kissed her cheeks, spreading up to her ears and around the back of her neck. She swallowed, and shifted on her feet. The stuffiness in the pub kicked up a notch. She wanted to suck in air, but wasn’t a fan breathing the staleness deep. It wouldn’t help. “If you’ll excuse me, I was trying to go get some air.”

  He cocked his head to one side, and narrowed his eyes. “I’ll go wit’ ye.”

  “Why?” The word rushed out.

  He isn’t a creepy stalker, is he?

  She wanted to push past him, but he was solid, built like a linebacker. It wasn’t like she’d get far if he didn’t want her to.

  Ashlyn gave him another onceover and a tremor slid down her spine. It wasn’t fear; it was awareness. Anticipation, as if she was drawn to him.

  This guy wouldn’t hurt her; her gut shouted that much.

  But why on earth would he want to follow her outside?

  ****

  This lass had the Faery Flag?

  How?

  Eoin stared into the wide brown eyes of the bonnie American. The magic tying him to the treasure had never been wrong before, and the tug was definitely present. Throbbing, actually, as if he was right on top of it.

  The Flag was close.

  “’Tis late,” he murmured an answer to her demand, and received a honey-colored furrowed brow as her answer. He didn’t want to let her by him, and the pub was crowded, so until he moved the lass was stuck with him. That pleased him somehow.

  Eoin had blinked to Inverness. He’d recognized the city immediately, even though it looked vastly different from the Inverness he was used to in 1755. His magic had honed in on the place as soon as his booted feet had hit the cobbled street outside of it.

  He’d known the pub for what it was quickly. Had studied the sign before entering, and spent a time watching people come and go. Eoin had even contemplated ordering some ale, but he hadn’t taken two steps inside before he’d felt the pull of the Flag and had headed toward it. He’d seen the lass’ back turn just seconds before she’d collided with him.

  He hadn’t known she was the source of the magic’s draw until their eyes had met for the first time. The Flag was calling to him like a beacon, and it was close to her.

  Eoin couldn’t help but stare. She was stunning. A heart-shaped face was complete with a pert little nose and a wide, inviting mouth. Fair skin, and freckles strewn across the bridge of her nose, noticeable despite the dim tavern, only added to her appeal. She was blonde, but it was the same rich honey hue of her eyebrows, and fell to her shoulders in waves beckoning him to touch it.

  Her attire was similar to his; a dark blue T-shirt and jeans. She had a massive satchel with bright colored ink splotches on the fabric, and she clutched the thing as if she had to protect it.

  He hadn’t had a woman in a while, but the allure to this one was like a tug of magic; strong. Desire hit in him in the gut and he wanted to lean down and taste her mouth.

  Nay. Doesn’t make sense.

  Eoin needed to get the Flag and get home, not be thinking with his manhood. He’d never taken a lover from the future, though he’d realized early on during his travels that lasses of what Korinna called, “modern days” were different than females of his time. More open to the casual intimate company of a man, but they weren’t whores at a brothel.

  “Can you move?” she asked. Her brow was still knitted, despite staring at him. She was irritated, but her cheeks were crimson, and that enticed him, too.

  Eoin shook his head. “I’ll accompany ye, as I’d said.”

  “Why?” the lass repeated. She held the satchel higher; tighter.

  His eyes brushed it, and magic screamed in his head.

  The Flag was inside the thing.

  She couldn’t know what he sought, could she? Why was she so defensive of what she carried?

  He let her move passed him without answering. Her shoulder brushed his chest, and her hip rubbed his thigh, they were so close. Both spots tingled; made him want more.

  Eoin turned; he wasn’t going to allow her to leave him. He looked down, admiring how the denim jeans hugged her bottom and thighs—much an improvement over female attire of his time, which hid such gems from view.

  Resting his hand at the small of her back, he guided her through the crowd. A bolt of energy shot up his arm upon first touch, and his mouth went dry. He had the odd wish he was caressing her bare skin.

  The lass jumped, as if she’d felt it too, but didn’t shake his hand off.

  That pleased him, but etched his temptation higher. Eoin followed her outside, wanting to move closer, touch more of her than the soft fabric of her shirt.

  When the heavy wood door of the pub swung closed behind them, she whirled on him, breaking their physical contact.

  “What do you want?” the lass demanded.

  How to answer her?

  He could ask about the Flag; demand she return it, but the direct approach had rarely worked in the past. Perhaps he could buy it from her? He was curious as to how she’d acquired it in the first place.

  “Wha’ are ye called?” he asked instead. He could ease into negotiations so it would be pleasant for both of them.

  The lass blinked and her delicate eyebrows drew tight all over again. “Why?”

  “Of a suspicious sort, arena ye?” Eoin felt himself smiling; he couldn’t help it.

  “Wouldn’t you be if a stranger towered over you in a pub? Not to mention followed you outside and won’t tell you why.”

  “Perhaps.” She had a point, but she was a beautiful lass, so wasn’t she used to male attention? Somehow that idea bothered him and he wanted to growl. “I apologize if I startled ye.” He reached for his manners and bowed at the waist.

  Her eyes went wide, but the pink cheeks charmed to Eoin even more.

  She let her satchel fall to her side, revealing the front of her form-fitting shirt. It had words on it he didn’t try to read, but only because he couldn’t look away from the outline of her breasts.

  The material wasn’t as tight as his, but he could sense the size of the perfect globes. Not huge, but not small, and definitely worth exploring.

  Eoin cleared his throat and made himself look back at her bonnie face. “I needed ta talk ta ye, is all.”

  “About what?” Now she slid the bag behind her, still as if she had to protect it.

  Could she know about the Flag?

  Maybe he should be direct, after all. He smiled again, wanting to put her at ease. Wanted to touch her too, but instinct told him it’d make her retreat, and that was the last thing he wanted. It wasn’t wholly due to the Faery Flag, either. The lass had enchanted him.

  Eoin took a step forward and she took a step back, until her shoulders touched the stone side of the building. Her eyes went even wider.

  “Lass, I willna hurt ye.”

  She stared for a few moments, then nodded and relaxed slightly, but she didn’t separate her body from the building. “I know. I don’t know how I know, but I do. What do you need to talk to me about?” Her brown gaze was still more leery than he would’ve liked, but he could sense curiosity there, too. That could work to his favor.

/>   He took a breath. “I am Eoin MacLeod, an’ I fear ye have somethin’ tha’ belongs ta me.”

  Chapter Five

  She almost dropped her bag. Who was crazier, her or the man whose earnest sapphire eyes were studying her?

  Ashlyn tugged her favorite carry-all back up to her chest and pinned it with both arms. If he advanced on her again, at least she could keep him from getting close. Sorta.

  Worries flitted that she’d harm the painting, but she pushed them all away. Needed to protect herself if necessary from this huge man.

  The fact that he was hot shouldn’t soften her instincts, right?

  What’d happened to being sure he wouldn’t hurt her? She’d believed it even before he’d said it.

  She wanted to take another step back, but the pub wall was still touching her shoulders. Ashlyn had nowhere else to retreat. “Wh-wh-wh-what?” The stutter fell out and she cleared her throat. “What did you just say?” This was a demand. She spread her feet apart, bracing herself against the stone behind her.

  His face softened and he raised an outstretched palm. “Lass, I mean ye no harm, as I’ve alreada tol’ ye.”

  The brogue rolled over her, but she did her best to ignore the warmth that curled in her lower belly. This guy could be a crazy Scottish killer, and she was attracted to him?

  Idiot.

  “What did you say your name was?” Ashlyn barked.

  This has to be a sick joke.

  Or she was dreaming.

  Yes, maybe that’s it?

  Had she gotten drunk and passed out? She was really in her bed at the cottage. She’d never had much tolerance for alcohol, and Scottish beer was strong. Kate had insisted she come to the pub…maybe…

  She’d been so curious about Eoin MacLeod she’d dreamt him up, in contemporary clothing and everything?

  Then what does his claim about me having something belonging to him mean?

  Was he talking about his painting? In dreamland, that’d totally make sense.

  “That’s it,” she whispered.