Rogue on the Rollaway. Shannon MacLeod

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СКАЧАТЬ his soft burr. “Tall enough, I reckon. As ye can see, my feet just barely reach the floor.”

      Deciding to let her slight go unmentioned, Colleen led him to the large master bath where he cast a doubtful glance at the small bathtub. “Shower’s here,” she busied herself getting the nice guest towels–never been used–from the bathroom linen cabinet, “shampoo, conditioner and liquid soap are on the rack. It’s sensitive skin, hope that’s okay.” She pulled a new toothbrush and disposable razor from the drawer and laid them next to the sink. “I don’t have shaving cream, so you’ll have to use soap. Drop your dirty clothes outside the door and I’ll throw them in the washer.” The next hurdle presented itself as she took in–what a magnificent chest–his size. “What are you going to put on, though?” she thought out loud then assured him, “Don’t worry, I’ll find something.” And with that she turned and left the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

      Colleen returned to the living room and turned off the TV, replacing the DVD in its case. Surveying the irreparable damage to her coffee table, she remembered Marc had picked it out and decided for that reason alone she didn’t care about its loss. It was only moments later before she was inexplicably drawn back to the bathroom. It was silent as a tomb inside. Waiting outside the door, she listened for several long heartbeats before calling through. “Mr. MacIntyre? Is everything all right?”

      “Nay, not really,” came the mournful reply.

      Colleen knocked on the door then cracked it open to find him still fully dressed and standing in the center of the bathroom with the frustration evident on his chiseled features. “Where are the buckets? Where do ye draw water? I’m not…I doona ken all this,” Faolan snapped, waving his hand around impatiently.

      She gave him a long, hard look. “Can I ask you a really stupid question?”

      “If ye feel ye must,” he muttered under his breath, glaring sideways at the faucet handles as if he half expected them to bite.

      “When you left…wherever you were…what year was it?” She held her breath, waiting for the perfectly reasonable answer that would make all of this seem a little more …a little more what? More believable, less surreal, more plausible, less B movie, or any combination of the above would be fine.

      “The year 1403. I was in Alba,” Faolan replied absently, opening the linen closet to continue his search for the elusive buckets. His eyes widened as he ran his fingers over the towels and sheets inside. “Soft,” he murmured. He moved past Colleen and returned to the sink. He took a deep breath and gave one of the handles a quick turn, jumping when the water came pouring out. At once, he dropped to his knees to yank open the cabinet doors beneath the sink, rapping the exposed PVC tubes with his knuckle. “And this mayhap draws the water in?” He didn’t give her time to answer. “That would mean,” he said, rising to his feet, “that all these…pipes…are somehow connected to a well, mayhap behind the walls…” He knocked against the flowered wallpaper, listening for hollowness.

      Faolan’s attention was drawn to a wall switch near the mirror, and when he gave it an experimental jiggle, the row of round incandescent bulbs atop the vanity mirror went off, plunging the room into darkness. He muttered something unintelligible under his breath, flicked the switch again then gasped and blinked. He stared at the bright lights in disbelief. “And what manner of candles are these?” he whispered, reaching up to touch one before Colleen could stop him. With a muttered oath, he yanked his burnt fingers back and stuck the offended digits into his mouth.

      “Here,” Colleen sighed in exasperation. She grabbed his hand and shoved it under the running water. A soft sound of relief escaped his lips when the cold water eased the burning and when he smiled at her concern, his response to her question sunk in.

      Alba? Scotland! “Well, that explains everything,” she said with an air of nonchalance she in no way felt. That confirmed it. She was dreaming. Tomorrow morning when she woke up, she’d write it all down and sell it as a fantasy. Who could play him in the movie? Liam Neeeson might be tall enough, maybe Gerard Butler.

      “Indoor plumbing–amazing invention.” She reached in and turned on the shower; he jumped back in alarm. “Don’t try and wedge yourself into that little tub. There won’t be any room for the water and God knows you need it. No offense. The shower’s better. Use this first then this,” she handed him the bottles of shampoo and conditioner, “on your hair. The soap is in the white bottle up there.” She patted the closed toilet lid and said, “This replaces the…what’s the word…garderobe, and don’t even think about sticking anything in these,” she said, pointing to one of the electrical wall outlets. She decided he was either a very good actor or he really had never seen anything like this before judging from the astonished look on his face.

      A seductive grin curved his lips. “I thank ye, lady,” he said, casting a longing look at the hot water steaming up the bathroom. He deliberately wet his lower lip with the tip of his tongue, giving her a look that rivaled the temperature of the water. “That’s a lot of water for just one man,” he said in a deep, sexy purr.

      “I’ll just leave the fresh clothes outside the door,” she gulped, backpedaling out when he began tugging at the lacings on his pants with slow movements calculated to draw her eyes right to his… She yanked the door closed with a solid thunk, snorting at the definite male chuckle on the other side. After a moment, it cracked opened just wide enough for a large hand to drop the dirty clothes as she had directed.

      A gorgeous but exceedingly strange man appeared out of nowhere and was now naked in her shower, rubbing her soap all over a very impressive collection of muscles. She shivered and paused for a moment to catch her breath then began going through the dresser drawers in her bedroom. She rummaged through her winter drawer, looking for the sweats she knew were in there. He was definitely going to put one-size-fits-all to the test. She found the old gray pair of XL drawstring sweatpants she lounged around in and an oversized Universal Studios t-shirt. She draped the clean pants and shirt over the handle then hesitated. After a moment she put her ear to the bathroom door and smiled, hearing her new guest humming happily in a rich baritone while he splashed around in the shower.

      Colleen picked up the pile of clothes and headed for the small laundry room just off the kitchen, grabbing the large muddy boots on the way. Upon further inspection, the ripped and bloodied shirt was set aside as a lost cause. She searched inside the odd pants for laundering instructions for several minutes before she caught herself and laughed. “Of course there aren’t any. They were made what, six hundred years ago?” Her laughter sounded strained even to her own ears. She checked the worn leather bag for ID but found nothing inside but a few bits of dried, broken leaves. The boots, she was happy to discover, weren’t as filthy as she originally thought. A bit of hot water from the laundry room sink to wash off the fresh mud and loosen the dried, and she was able to towel them off and pronounce them clean in relatively quick order.

      Where was she going to put him? Colleen fretted, nibbling her lower lip. Guest room! With a heavy boot in each hand, she darted to her spare bedroom, still piled high with the boxes she hadn’t gotten around to unpacking after the divorce. Some days she kicked herself for not keeping the large house she and Marc had purchased right before his infidelity became front page news, but overall, the condo they once shared was much more affordable on her less than stellar salary.

      Turning on the light, she peered in and for the hundredth time regretted the just moved in motif the room bore. Too late to worry about that now, she sighed. Dropping the cleaned boots next to a tall stack of taped liquor boxes, she rushed back to the kitchen to worry about dinner. Colleen took a fast inventory of her groceries to see what she could whip up for him to eat. She came to the conclusion that if TV dinners were good enough for her, they were СКАЧАТЬ