Rogue on the Rollaway. Shannon MacLeod

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      After the kitchen table was set to her satisfaction, Colleen tackled the shredded remnants of her coffee table. Grabbing two large garbage bags from under the sink, she placed one inside the other before shoving the larger pieces of the coffee table into it. Tying it as best she could, she dragged it over to the door to be taken out to the dumpster the next morning. Her mind was wandering in far left field when a bizarre thought occurred to her. Mentally she heard the voice of Rod Serling. “Submitted for your approval–the curious case of Colleen O’Brien and the gorgeous time traveling Scot who landed in her living room. Clapping a hand over her face, she took a deep breath. “My head is going to explode,” she muttered.

      When enough time had passed that she began worrying about what he was getting up to in there, Faolan emerged from the steaming bathroom with a little boy at Christmas smile. “By Christ, ‘twas truly a wonderful thing.” He laughed. “I think this is the cleanest I’ve ever been.” He ran his hand over his freshly shaven jaw. “I found the razor to be most effective. Much better than a knife blade, but Jesú it is sharp.”

      She smiled at his obvious enjoyment. “I think you’re going to need some new clothes, though.” The gray sweats fit his lean hips, but were lacking in length, catching him about mid calf. The cotton t-shirt stretched taut over his broad chest. His wet hair had been combed away from his face and hung well below the middle of his back. Colleen quickly averted her eyes, lest he catch her staring at him. Easily six and a half feet tall, two hundred fifty pounds and even better looking clean shaven, he filled the doorway with his muscular body. Colleen felt positively tiny next to this man.

      Rod continued his monologue inside her head. Watch as we follow Colleen on her descent into madness, he urged the audience. She gave a start at the internal intrusion and cleared her throat. “Let’s get you something to eat, Mr. MacIntyre,” she said.

      “Faolan, please,” he said. He followed her to the kitchen, taking the seat she directed him to.

      Opening the freezer and peering inside Colleen said, “All I’ve got are TV dinners. Anything special you’re in the mood for?”

      She turned to find he had slipped up behind her and was staring into the freezer, mouth agape. “It’s so cold,” he marveled, touching a fingertip to one of the frozen shelves. With an indulgent smile, she gave him a quick tour of the kitchen appliances then returned to the freezer. “Which do you want?” she asked again, gesturing to the stack of frozen entrees.

      With a bleak smile, Colleen watched the spoils of her grocery trip the day before disappear into the bottomless pit of Faolan MacIntyre. Bite by ravenous bite, he polished off every single one of the frozen dinners, all but one of the desserts–“Food shouldn’t be that shade of green, lass,” he had remarked about the key lime pie–half a loaf of bread with most of a jar of peanut butter, two of the apples, and all of the milk. When at last he sighed contentedly and leaned back in his chair, Colleen relaxed. “You’re going to need to get a job if you always eat like that,” she pointed out. “I can’t afford to feed you.”

      Faolan threw back his head and roared with laughter. “I’m naught but a growing lad,” he said, “but I am able to pay for my lodgings, Princess.” He glanced around the kitchen. “Where are my clothes, lady? I had a small bag with me.”

      She went to the laundry room and returned with the worn and battered sporran. “If this is what you’re referring to, it was empty,” she informed him, handing over the soft leather pouch.

      “Ah, but things aren’t always as they appear to be,” he teased, his deep blue eyes dancing with delight. “Were ye to look as my gaolers did, ye’d think it empty and worthless.” He held it open, turned the pouch upside down and shook it with a theatrical flourish. When nothing fell out, he smiled and closed it again. “But if I were to say I need coin to pay this kind lady for bed and board–”

      “And clothing.” Colleen giggled, anticipating a magic trick.

      “And clothing,” he amended, lifting the flap and sticking his hand inside, “I would reach inside the bag and pull out…” His hand emerged from the bag with a fistful of shiny gold coins, spreading them out before her on the table.

      Her mouth formed in a silent oh. “Are those…gold? Real gold?” She picked one up and turned it over. It was heavier than it looked, maybe a full ounce or two. She raised it up to eye level to study more closely; if there had been a stamp on it at one time, it had worn away to almost nothing.

      Faolan grinned. “Of course they’re real. There should be enough there to buy aught which ye require.”

      She stared at the gold silently for a long moment then raised a worried gaze to him. “I need for you to tell me who you are, where you came from, and what I’m supposed to do with you now that you’re here,” she said, her voice quavering. “And I need for you to do it now–no bullshit. That bag was empty, sport.”

      He blew out a gusty sigh. “My name is Faolan MacIntyre,” he began. “I was born in the year 1216…”

      Colleen slammed her hands down on the table. “I said no bullshit.”

      “And I’m giving ye none,” he snapped, slamming his own large hands down. “’Tis truth. Now do ye want the whole of it, or will ye continue to interrupt?”

      She jumped at the sharp noise and nodded once. “I’ll be quiet,” she assured him in a tiny voice. He swallowed hard and she responded immediately by jumping up and fetching him a glass of ice water from the refrigerator.

      He drained the glass in one swallow. Taking the glass from him, she refilled it then settled back into her chair. “Thank ye,” he said, his tone cordial again. “As I was sayin’, I was born the youngest of six in a small village a day and a half ride south of Inverness. I was sent to foster with my father’s clan near Edinburgh when I was old enough to learn to fight.”

      Colleen leaned forward and rested her chin on her hands. “How old was that?” she asked, getting caught up in his story.

      “Hard to remember, mayhap six, seven. My brother Sawney was already there.” Faolan said. “My mother–Beatrix was her name–insisted we be taught our letters as well. I learned…other skills…later on.” He paused to take another long drink of water and gave a low chuckle. “I had a normal boyhood, I reckon. Lifting cattle, warring with neighboring clans. In time, I was placed in charge of our clan’s garrison, training the men and leading them when the need arose.”

      Colleen pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Beatrix is a pretty name, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard Sawney before.”

      “It’s a nickname, ye might say. Short for Alexander.” He paused for another drink before continuing. “I married when I was but a lad of seventeen. Our union had been arranged, of course, but she was a pretty enough lass. We got on well together for being all but strangers when we wed and over time we grew to love each other. Had three bairns by the time I was twenty four, with another on the way.”

      He fell silent and a shadow passed over his face. “In the early autumn I lost my wife and unborn daughter in childbirth, two of my sons the following winter to fever. My oldest lad Walter had already been sent to foster. I was devastated, my whole family gone in the space of a few months. I left my home and for years sold my sword to any willing to pay my price. On the eve of my birthday, I found myself alone in a tavern in Eire. I saw the most beautiful woman…I was drunk, ye see, and she made certain to catch my eye.”

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