To Love a Highland Dragon (3 page)

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.”

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.”