The Kiss: An Anthology About Love and Other Close Encounters(8)

Her head swam. She pulled the door handle, but it was stuck. She had to get out of the car. She leaned her throbbing head back on the headrest and turned toward the passenger side. It was too close to the rocks. She would have to ease her way out through the driver’s side window. Mac’s hand trembled as she unbuckled her seatbelt. Her vision blurred and began to go dark. Don’t faint now.

The door creaked and then opened, and a deep male voice said, “Come, lass.” Strong arms pulled her from the car. “Can you stand?”

He set her on her feet, but her legs buckled. He scooped her up. Fuzzyheaded, Mac leaned on his chest. Her hand rested on his shoulder, and her fingers traced a fold of wool draped over his doublet.

“Nice kilt, Scotty. But just so you know, real Scotsmen go shirtless.” She smiled and laid her head on his shoulder.





*


She awoke to the smell of wood smoke and the feel of strong arms holding her. She tried to sit up, but the arms tightened.

In low, calming tones, he said, “You’re safe. I’ll not harm you.”

“Not harm me?” That brought her fully alert. “Why would you even say that? Who are you? Where are we?” She winced as pain shot through her temple.

“You’ve bumped your head.”

“With what, a ten-pound hammer?” She tenderly touched her head to assess the damage.

Fire lit the rough ceiling and walls of what looked like a cave—a cave barely large enough for the two of them. She was nestled over his lap. Mac’s situation did not look good. She was trapped in a cave with a large, rugged man. How she got there, she didn’t recall. He’d probably clubbed her over the head and dragged her there by her hair. But where was there? Past the fire, rough-hewn stones framed the falling snow.

“The stone chamber,” she whispered.

“I beg your pardon, lass?”

“Lass”? And a Scottish brogue? That was cute.

Mac turned to look at him but quickly turned back, refusing to be drawn in by his looks. Dim firelight or not, she knew handsome when she saw it. Tousled brown hair brushed his temples. Those eyes were dark and warm, and they’d searched hers a little too deeply. She had to work hard to resist him. Her practical side was, thank God, stronger.

“I’m a black belt,” she warned. “If you try anything, I can kill you.” She prayed he wouldn’t ask her what she had a black belt in. She had one—in her belt drawer. It came with her little black dress.

He laughed at her threat, and his laugh was full and infectious. She forced a stern look to hide the urge to laugh with him.

“I’ll be careful not to anger you, then.” Even his smirk was good-looking.

Mac nodded. “See that you don’t.”

He answered her nod with his own, while suppressing a grin. With that settled, she became aware of his body against hers. Her inner sirens sounded. With a jab of her elbows into his chest, she pushed up, grabbing his thighs for leverage. She lifted a brow. Don’t let those rock-hard muscles distract you. Keep moving.

He leaned back, raising his palms in surrender. “Dinnae fash yourself, lass. I was trying to warm you. You were shaking before you awoke.”

“I’m not fashing myself—whatever that is. But if I feel like fashing, I’ll fash as much as I want.” Fashing or not, she felt cold away from his arms. She wouldn’t think about that. “I would like an explanation, if that’s not too much to ask.”

“Of what?”

“Of why we’re here, for starters.”

“I pulled you from your carriage and brought you here for shelter and warmth.”

She glared at him in disbelief.

“Here you are, sheltered and warmed. I’ve not hurt you, have I?”

“Maybe you were waiting for me to wake up.” She eyed him with more mistrust than she felt, but she wouldn’t let him know how strangely unthreatening he seemed. Sick bastards counted on trust to lure victims. Of course, he had no need to lure, since she was already in his lair. They were inside a shelter too far from houses for anyone to hear if she screamed, which was all the more reason not to trust him. He might be some perv who’d wandered off the Appalachian Trail. It ran past her house, which unfortunately, was still too far of a walk in a storm. “Are you a hiker?”

“Nay, lass.”

The soft light in his eyes and his quiet confidence unsettled her more than she dared to let on. He met every skeptical look, every challenging edge in her voice with a calm hint of a smile.

She turned away, afraid the firelight might reveal the color he brought to her cheeks. He had clouded her thinking, so she latched onto the last thing he said. “What’s with the lass stuff, anyway?”

He looked quizzically at her.

“The way you’re talking. You’re good, but I’ve been to Scotland. That accent’s a fake.”

That seemed to amuse him. “Is it, now?”

She squinted as she scrutinized him. “Where have I seen you before?”

“In front of your carriage.”

“My carriage? Oh, you mean my car. Yeah, I guess that’s it.” Their eyes met and lingered too long. She glanced down to avoid the power of his gaze. “What’s up with that kilt? Are you in a pipe band?”

“It’s a plaid.”