Ashlyn couldn’t help looking over her shoulder as she practically dragged Kate away from the pub.
He was still there, staring in their direction.
She wanted to quicken her step.
“Jesus, let go of me, or slow the hell down! I’m not gonna scratch my Louies…or worse, break a heel. Do you have any idea how much these shoes cost?” her bestie grumbled.
“We have to get back.”
Kate yanked away and planted her feet on the ground with a stomp that screamed. She crossed her arms over her chest and glared. “Tell me what the heck is going on, Ash!”
She shook her head.
Her friend scowled. “Right. Now.”
“He…he…kissed me, all right?”
“Duh. I’ve got eyes.”
“I didn’t…”
Kate blinked. Waited.
Ashlyn had been about to say she hadn’t wanted to kiss the laird-lookalike. But that would be a lie. She’d just…
Jesus, can you get more pathetic? Did you really think you were dreaming? So what if it doesn’t make sense, right?
“What?” her bestie prompted. “Did he like, rape-kiss you?”
She winced. “Not exactly…”
“Why do you sound so unsure? I know he’s tall, but I could take him. I’ll kick him in the balls. Do we need to go back?” She started to whirl around, but Ashlyn latched on to her arm.
“Just stop. It’s fine. Let’s go get some sleep.”
“Ash?” Kate studied her face. “What’s wrong with you? You’re shaking. I’m gonna kill that bastard.”
She sucked in a breath and met her friend’s seafoam eyes. “You didn’t notice…”
“Notice what?”
Ashlyn opened her bag and dug out the little gilt frame. Couldn’t look at Eoin MacLeod, but she held it up to Kate.
“Oh. My. God.”
Maybe she had noticed the resemblance?
“You brought that with you? To the pub?”
Well, maybe not. “Can’t you see it?” She flipped the painting and looked into the laird’s eyes. Pools of sapphire stared out at her, but paled in comparison to the real thing.
Oh God. Get over yourself. He can’t be the same guy.
“Ash, you’re making me worry.” Kate’s head was cocked to one side, and she wore a frown.
“He looked just like this guy. Even said his name was Eoin MacLeod. Just like…him…in the painting.” She rushed her words and fought the urge to close her eyes. Shudders threatened to bowl her over. Maybe she’d really lost it. Being a writer had sucked her rational brain into the ether.
Kate was silent. Then, after seconds that felt like hours, she threw her head back and barked a laugh. “We’re in Scotland.”
“Yeah? And?”
“That’s probably a common name here.”
“I don’t think—”
“Ashlyn.” Her bestie settled her hands on her shoulders and squeezed. “I think you do need to sleep. How much did you have to drink?”
She frowned. “One beer. Stop trying to make me think I’m crazy. They…look just alike. Look at the painting, I mean, really look.”
Her friend’s gaze only stayed on the laird for a few seconds before her eyes landed back on Ashlyn’s. Classic Kate, when she’d made up her mind and was about to disregard what someone else thought. “Well, they have the same name. Maybe your kissing bandit is a descendant of this guy. Who knows? Scotland’s not that big.”
“But, Kate—”
“Honey—”
“Don’t patronize me, Kathryn Marie Farmer.”
She giggled. “Uh oh, you’re breaking out the full name?”
Ashlyn glared. “Bite me.” She looked toward the pub, but Not-So-Dream-Eoin was gone. However, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he watched them from somewhere. Another shudder wracked her frame and she fought the resulting quivers.
His mouth moving over hers had lit her up from the inside. She’d never reacted to a single kiss like that before. She could taste him still; all she had to do was run her tongue along her lips. And he’d smelled so good, like naturally, not like a man who used fancy colognes.
Being in his arms, against that massive chest, she’d felt…protected, even if it was cheesy, like what she’d write in one of her books. Ashlyn hadn’t had a care in the world—except his mouth taking hers. His tongue against hers. Feeling his erection against her stomach, and the heat in her sex. She had to squeeze her thighs together to ignore the throb even now. Wished for Not-So-Dream-Eoin.
He was so hot…
Maybe it’s that Scottish beer?
“Ash?”
She jumped at her nickname and looked back at Kate. “He’s gone,” she whispered.
“Good. He was super-hot, but if he forced his hands—or his mouth—on you, I’ll still hunt him down and kick his ass.”
She smirked. “He didn’t force me. I wanted to kiss him.”
Confusion darted across Kate’s pretty face. “Then, why—”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s done. Tell me about the bartender. I assume you and he…snogged?”
Her bestie snickered. “We did. He’s hot, too. And those muscles. Just wow. They feel as good as they look, and damn…can he kiss. His name’s Graham and I totally plan to see him again before we leave.”
Ashlyn looped her arm in Kate’s and swung her bag over her shoulder. “C’mon, tell me all about it. Don’t leave any details out. Give me story fodder. I’ll write a scene inspired by you!”
Kate grinned and they started to walk to the cottages their tour group was staying at.
Someone—Not-So-Dream-Eoin probably—really was watching them the whole way. She didn’t fear him. It was more…anticipation, as if he’d be Romeo, calling out to her like Juliet, on the tower after they’d kissed the first time.
Oh, hell. That was a tragedy. You realllllly need to get over yourself.
Then again, tragedy was pretty apropos for how her interaction with the hot Scot had gone. No matter how good the kiss had been.
Maybe Kate was right. This Eoin MacLeod was simply related to the laird from the 1700s in her painting. The doppelgänger thing could be explained, right? Familial DNA reoccurring three hundred years later?
That has to be it.
But…the way he’d insisted he was Eoin MacLeod, and asked how she knew ‘of’ him? His brogue and his word choice was…old school. With a capital O. He’d called her ‘lass’…
Ashlyn shook her head and pushed away the impossible. She focused on Kate’s interaction with Graham, and smiled at how her bestie’s eyes lit up. The girl had a serious crush, and it was too bad she’d have to leave the dude behind when they headed home at the end of the week.
It was sad, and the hopeless romantic in her wanted more for her fashion designer friend. Despite what Kate claimed about being busy, and preferring the single life, she deserved love.
They made it to their temporary home after a brisk walk and the naughty story. Kate opened things up.
Before they could go inside, Ashlyn felt dizzy. Her step faltered and her bestie grabbed her arm, but Kate wavered in her Louies, too, and she gripped both her friend’s wrists.
They locked eyes and Kate yawned.
“I don’t feel right,” they said at the same time.
Ashlyn swallowed a yawn of her own, but then the world went black.
****
Eoin caught both women—barely. He lowered his Ashlyn to the ground as gently as he could, leaning her against the stone cottage’s outside wall. He hefted her friend in his arms and toed the door open, entering the small cottage. It was dark and he didn’t feel much like searching for the switch on the wall that would artificially light the place.
Electricity had awed and petrified him the first time he’d encountered it, but wonder had won out, and it was one of the things he wished for in his century.
Korinna had given him a rudimentary lesson of how it worked—which only served to make him even more envious.
He set the lass down on the first bed he came to, praying his spell would keep her asleep for hours—or the whole night. It wouldn’t matter for him and Ashlyn—they’d go back to 1755—but when Kate awoke, she’d find her friend missing and would probably remember everything up to the moment he’d knocked them both out.
There were spells to scramble memories, but he didn’t want to make things even worse for her. He wished Ashlyn would’ve been alone.
He’d been stealthy in his approach and neither lass had spotted him, so his appearance wouldn’t feature in Kate’s memories.
The redheaded beauty would likely go to the police—another thing his century didn’t offer.
They wouldn’t be there for the fallout, but if he returned his lass to the twenty-first century, he could take her right back to this moment, where it would seem as if she’d never left. Aye, it would change history, but it would be for Ashlyn and Kate’s benefit, as well as his own. A small ripple in time shouldn’t damage much.
If?
He wouldn’t have a choice but to return her home. Eoin would get the Flag and their need to be together would end.
Right?
He growled at his instant rejection of the idea of letting her go.
They didn’t know each other.
It was the right thing to do.
Hell, the right thing to do was get the Flag now, and place Ashlyn on the other bed in the cottage.
Walk away.
Eoin should do just that; like he was leaving the small place now. He could go free and clear; she most likely wouldn’t have a clue what’d happened.
He stared down at her beautiful face, still in a repose he’d induced, and a fierce protectiveness rose in his chest, one he’d previously reserved for his sister alone. But, naturally, he didn’t want to claim Fiona like he did the sleeping lass before him.
Eoin wanted Ashlyn for his own—for keeps.
He didn’t even know her surname or her background. She was American, so her people could’ve come from anywhere. She probably wasn’t even Scottish.
Cursing under his breath, he reached for her satchel instead of gathering her to him like he wanted. His magic throbbed; the Flag called.
Lettering caught his attention before he could dive inside. ‘Ashlyn George,’ was sewn into the side of the bag, prominent amongst the colorful splotches, in a glistening gold thread.
“George.” Like the king he’d begrudgingly sworn fealty to. So many of his countrymen fought the Sassenachs even now. He’d done what he’d had to do to keep his clan, his sister, his Grandfa, safe. Didn’t have to like it. “Bastard Englishman.” Hopefully his Ashlyn wasn’t a relation.
Eoin opened the bag, but he couldn’t see much of the contents. He slid a hand inside and felt around. His magic hummed when his fingers encountered something hard, but it felt embossed, or like carved wood that’d been smoothed of any rough edges.
He pulled what turned out to be a small fancy frame, and dropped the satchel. The thing was gold, like the letters on the bag.
His eyes locked onto—well, his own. Eoin startled.
What in five hells?
Ashlyn had a painting of him?
He hadn’t sat for any such thing, but perhaps he hadn’t just yet—as far as his time was concerned.
Eoin didn’t see the Faery Flag, but his magic screamed it was right before his eyes. He flipped the painting over. The frame was thick. Perhaps, the Flag was inside it?
Close voices made him jolt and his eyes darted around. He couldn’t see anyone, but the conversation was gaining volume by the second. More American accents were coming toward him—them.
He needed to get Ashlyn and go. What would someone think if they rounded the corner and saw her passed out, leaning against the cottage wall? He couldn’t chance anyone seeing them, even if he could just play things off by claiming his lass had over imbibed.
Eoin slid the painting back in the satchel and closed the cottage door silently. He threw the bag’s straps over his shoulder and lifted Ashlyn into his arms.
Even asleep she cuddled into him, as if seeking warmth, and nestled her face into his neck.
A tremor shot down his spine and he had to suck in a breath. She fit against him as if she was made for him.
The thought jarred him even more, but the voices were nearer still, so Eoin ordered his feet to move.
Ashlyn was going to have a thing or two to say when she awoke, no doubt, but he’d feel better if they were on 1755 Skye, and out of the twenty-first century.
At least then she couldn’t run from him.