Rogue on the Rollaway. Shannon MacLeod

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      “United States,” she clarified. Any minute now…

      He shook his head and shrugged. “I suppose it matters not. What day is it?”

      She folded her arms over her chest. “I’m not telling you anything else until you tell me your name.”

      “Faolan MacIntyre at yer service, m’lady,” he grinned, inclining his head.

      “Fee-lawn,” Colleen repeated, “that’s an unusual name. I was trying to place your accent…”

      When he didn’t answer right away she realized she had lost him. His full attention was snared by the TV guide last seen lying on the coffee table, minding its own business. He rubbed the paper between his fingers then pointed to the cover. “Is this date correct?” he asked, the blood draining from his face.

      Her trepidation building, Colleen nodded. His attention remained riveted to the magazine, gazing in apparent amazement at the pictures. He snatched up two more magazines–the new issues of People and Cosmopolitan– looking bewildered as he flipped through both from cover to cover. While he skimmed through her light reading material, she took a good look at his unusual clothing. His once white linen shirt was dirty and torn, and he was wearing some sort of leather pants, the likes of which she had never seen outside a Renaissance faire. A battered pouch strung on a thin belt of worn leather nestled against his hip. His tall boots folded down mid calf and were covered in mud… “You get those filthy boots off my carpet right now,” she shrieked. “I just had it cleaned.”

      Faolan winced at her sharp tone. “As ye wish,” he muttered under his breath, and it was when he reached to tug them off that she saw the caked blood.

      “Oh, my God. You’re hurt,” Colleen cried, grabbing his hands and pulling them to look at his abraded wrists. The contact was electrifying, and she sucked in a breath when she glanced up and caught him looking at her with the same intensity. “Don’t move.” Both the carpet and her fear forgotten, she jumped up and ran to the bathroom, returning in moments with a first aid kit. “Get that shirt off,” she ordered, and without a word he shrugged out of it.

      Her mouth went dry at the sculpted muscles of his arms and chest covered in a light pelt of black curls. No steroids in this farm boy - those looked like real muscles. “Now hold still,” she said, wiping down the multitude of cuts and abrasions with antiseptic. She made a sound of sympathy at the crisscross of welts and cuts. “What on earth got hold of you?”

      Her stoic patient sucked in a sharp breath when she cleaned a deep, encrusted gash on his shoulder and she immediately apologized. “I’m sorry, it’s just…”

      Faolan shook his head. “Yer hands are gentler than most, Princess. Yer ministrations are welcome.”

      Colleen colored at his flattering words. “I’m not a princess. I manage a gift shop at the museum,” she corrected, focusing her attention on cleaning the gaping wound. “This one may need stitches,” she said.

      “In my eyes, ye are a princess,” Faolan murmured softly. “Mayhap even an angel.” He brushed a strand of hair from her eyes then turned a critical eye to gauge for himself how bad the cut was. “No need to worry, it’ll mend itself right enough,” he said with a nonchalant shrug. “Have ye skill with a needle? Ye could stitch–”

      “Oh, no I couldn’t, either,” she assured him without hesitation, blanching white at the mere thought of sticking a needle in his flesh, whatever the reason.

      He threw back his head and laughed at her adamant squeamishness, and her entire body reverberated with the warm, rich sound. Leaning in closer, his lips stopped just short of brushing hers. “How can I repay yer kindess…” he began then suddenly grabbed her by both arms and held her still, searching her eyes.

      Colleen struggled in vain against the unexpected vice like grip. “Let me go,” she hissed.

      “Steady, lass,” he soothed. With one large hand he reached inside her robe and curled his fingers around the necklace, raising it to his eyes. “Ye have my amulet,” Faolan whispered in a subdued voice, “and I’m guessing I know now how I got here. What I’d like to be knowing is how ye came by it.”

      Colleen gasped at the intimate contact and huffed, “My grandmother gave it to me.” Well, she hoped she huffed. His touch was actually a lot more exciting than she wanted to admit and she wasn’t quite sure if she was ready for him to let her go. He released both her and the amulet. It fell back to her chest, hot against her tingling skin. “What does my necklace have to do with anything?”

      With an enigmatic smile Faolan said, “Ye wished on it and now here I am, yers to command as ye will, Princess.”

      He picked his shirt up, shook it out and slipped it over his head while Colleen tried to work her way through the cryptic comment. “Who are you?” she asked again. His stomach rumbled in answer and they both stared down at it. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” she frowned, her tone a little less sharp than before.

      “Days,” he admitted. “Been living on dry bread crusts and water for at least a sennight. I was actually….em…in the process of being hung when ye called. Yer timing was most fortuitous.” He actually had the nerve to grin at that admission.

      “Hung? As in from the neck until dead?” she cried, jumping back. “What did you do?” His large hand shot out to catch her ankle as she scrambled to get away from him, squeaking in alarm and swatting at his hand to free herself.

      “I spurned the attentions of the wrong lady and she took enough offense to accuse me of witchcraft,” Faolan confessed in a rush. “Naught more than that.” He gave her another smile. “Ye have my word, freely given, I’ll no’ harm ye.” When she relaxed and stopped struggling, he released her ankle, spreading his hands in a gesture of peace. Refocusing on his injuries, he worked his shoulders gingerly to stretch the muscles. “My gaolers were less than charitable. Most of these,” he indicated the cuts, “are the result of their tender mercies.”

      Colleen collected herself and gave him a tentative smile back. “I don’t know why I trust you’re telling the truth, but I do,” she said. “Of course, if I find out you’re lying, you’ll be back in jail before you know what hit you, got it?”

      Faolan gave her a solemn nod of acquiescence. “Got…it.” The phrase sounded odd on his tongue.

      “Good.” Colleen kept her eyes trained on the strange man. It’s a dream, just go with it. Her ingrained from birth Southern hospitality surfaced, and Colleen got down to the serious business of being a good hostess in spite of the bizarre situation. “Okay, your clothes are filthy, you’re starving and your cuts are clean but what you really need is a bath. Which do you want first?”

      His eyes closed and a soft smile crossed his face. “I was right. ’Tis an angel ye are. Were ye to permit me a bath first, I would be forever in yer debt.” He rubbed the rough stubble on his jaw, obviously several days worth. “This itches like the very devil.”

      “Shower it is, then,” she said, getting to her feet. She reached out her hand to assist him up, and when he clasped it in his own, a tangible charge of electricity ran through both of their bodies. She stared down at it in shock before yanking hers back. Aghast at her own rudeness, she glanced up to meet his eyes…and up…and up. “My God, how tall are СКАЧАТЬ