My Highlander Cover Model (2 page)

By the time she strode into the studio, Roderick was stretching with his arms above his head. Skye bit her lower lip to keep the moan of desire from leaving her throat.
So beautiful. Such a waste
. He’d placed the shoulder-length black wig on his head and looked even more gorgeous. His grass-green eyes were more prominent against the darker hair.

“Roderick, hold this sword. We’ll use it for those behind-the-back shots. What do you think, Peter?”

“Yeah, whatever,” he answered.

Roderick pulled out the sword and frowned. “It’s old, and it’s too heavy.”

Skye was ready to throttle the idiot six ways from Sunday.

“It’s about seven pounds, wuss. You lift more than that at the gym, I’ll bet.”

Skye expected a sick, salacious remark about how he lifted more than that every night with a woman, but he didn’t go there. His frown deepened. Roderick pushed the sword toward her.

“I don’t want to use it. Give me the fake one.”

Skye stepped closer, grabbed the sword, and pushed it back toward him.

“Stop messing around. We’re already behind schedule. Time is money. Use the damned sword.” Her voice rose as her temper flared red-hot.

They both had hold of it now, grappling it back and forth above their heads. The blade began to vibrate, and it hummed, just like the singing sword in the Bugs Bunny cartoon.
No frigging way
.

“No! There’s something about it—get it away from me!” Roderick shouted.

Roderick let go of the blade and it slipped from her hand. The heavy, jeweled hilt smacked him square in the forehead. He fell to the floor, unconscious.
Oh, shit
! A nasty, egg-sized welt appeared.

“Peter! Get some help! Call 911—do something!”

Skye dropped to her knees and laid her ear against his heart. The beat was strong and steady.

“Skye, his eyes are fluttering. He’ll be fine. I’m going to the staff room for a coffee. Text me when he’s ready.”

Peter left the room. Some help he was. She was about to scramble for her cell phone when Roderick’s eyes opened slightly. But that was not all. He seemed somehow—different. She pinched the bridge of her nose and then took another look. Stress was causing her to imagine things. Roderick couldn’t be any different. What was wrong with her?

His eyes snapped open wide. Roderick jumped to his feet, picked up the sword, and wielded it in a battle position. He quickly made a circle, as if checking out the room. He looked confused, his eyes unfocused. He strode toward her and rested the tip of the blade against her chest.

“Where the
bluidy
hell am I? Speak, or I’ll run ye through.”

Chapter Two

Skye froze. The man had lost his marbles. The tip of the sword pressed against her breastbone. Damn, he meant business. His voice seemed deeper somehow. She must be losing it. Hell,
he
was losing it. Was it the smack on the head?

“Ah, Roderick, take it easy….”

“My name is no’ Roderick. I am Cailin Thorburn of the clan Macbeth. On your feet, lass. I willna hurt you.”

He poked her to punctuate his command. She stood and glanced upward. Was it possible Roderick seemed a little taller and broader?

“Then move the sword off me. Stop frigging around.”

She tried to keep her voice steady, but Roderick was spooking her, big time. Even his eyes seemed different; they were a deeper green, more alive, and perhaps with an edge of cruelty. Why in hell did he speak with a fake-sounding Scottish accent? He sounded like Sean Connery after a wild night in Edinburgh. He pulled off the wig and threw it to the floor. Then he lowered the sword.

“You will no’ run, or I will catch you, lass. Now. Where am I? Speak plain and clear.”

Might as well humor this idiot. The bonk on the brain must’ve scrambled his circuits.

“Take a breath. You’re at Night Moon Publishers in New York City. United States of America. Ring any bells?”

The sword slipped from his hand and hit the floor with a loud clang.

“Nay, ’tis no’ possible.”

His voice was filled with such agonizing shock, Skye’s annoyance fled and she moved to his side and slipped her arm around his trim waist.

“I think you may have a concussion. I’d better take you to a doctor and then see you home. We can reschedule the photo shoot another time.”

Roderick gazed down at her, confusion clear on his face. Those mesmerizing emerald-green eyes caused the breath to hitch in her throat. She glanced behind her and noticed the wool kilt had a tear at the waistband. She dismissed it as she led Roderick to the men’s locker room to change.

***

By the time Skye had texted everyone in question about rescheduling the shoot, Roderick walked out of the locker room wearing the button-fly leather pants and white shirt he’d arrived in. His clothes seemed tighter. Her gaze scanned down his torso.
Yeah, very…tight
. Shaking her head to clear the erotic vision of Roderick’s muscular frame, she ran into the room, grabbed his leather jacket, and helped him outside. There, Roderick’s eyes widened and his face lost all its color when he saw the cars on the road and in the parking lot. He asked what they were. She gently explained about automobiles, humoring him, and cajoled him to get inside. Good thing she knew what car he drove, because he acted like he didn’t know where his vehicle was located. He was seriously screwed up.

She stood with him in the examination room at a clinic not far from his house. She checked his driver’s license and was surprised to learn he lived only a few miles away from her. Skye assumed he would have an upper Manhattan bachelor pad, not a bungalow in New Rochelle.

The X-rays came back and Roderick was given a clean bill of health, though the doctor said he should rest for twenty-four hours and not be left alone in case he had a concussion. Skye asked if he had any family, he slowly lowered his head.

“No’ anymore,” he murmured quietly.

The first words he’d spoken since the parking lot. Was there sadness in his now subdued voice, or was it just another way the concussion manifested itself?

“Roderick, I’ll take you home.”

He didn’t argue, just stood and followed her to the Lincoln. He looked at the door, and then tentatively reached for the handle. The door popped open and he climbed in. As she pulled out of the parking lot, he finally asked a question.

“Where are you taking me, lass?”

“I told you, my name is Skye. Skye Bancroft. How can you forget that? And I’m taking you home.”

“Oh, aye? To Scotland?” he snapped.

The lass, Skye her name, looked at him as if he’d gone daft. Mayhap he had. He must be dreaming, a devil’s delusion. Nay, a nightmare, to be sure. He could not have imagined all this, and all these people. This
auto
contraption or the large hospital building. He felt strange, removed from his skin. He looked at his hands. They were large, but not as he remembered. There were no calluses or cuts. They were as smooth and unmarked as an aristocrat’s. What had happened to his shoulder-length hair? This could not be his body. Cailin struggled to recall his last thoughts before he’d awoken in the room with the bonnie lass.

He was in battle? Fighting for the very existence of his clan and his family, as memory served. He’d been struck down, hit in the back of the head with the broad side of a claymore, and he remembered no more as all had gone dark.

He glanced at the sword on the seat behind him. He’d insisted the lass bring it because he knew it was the key to something important. To what exactly, he had no idea but he did not want the sword out of his sight. His thoughts became more ordered as he came out of the befuddling fog he’d been in since he’d awoken. He barely remembered dressing, let alone anything else.

Cailin cast a fleeting look at the wee, braw lassie, Skye. Her womanly curves were lush and called out to be worshipped. A woman with a little meat on her bones had always been attractive to him. His intense gaze dropped to her breasts. Aye, a handful and more. His hands ached to cup their heft while his mouth watered to suckle the pert nipples visible through the cloth of her chemise. Many, many months had passed since he’d had a woman. Skye’s hair was as golden brown as a dram of whisky with her eyes the same smoky shade.
Aye, she is bonnie
.

Despite his situation, Cailin felt the blood rush to his cock until it strained against the leather trews he wore. He focused his gaze outside while he tried to tamp down his lust. Everywhere he looked, the land was filled with houses and people and the car motors. Aye, this was not Scotland, and it wasn’t 1814. He was almost afeared to ask the date. By the look of the newly budding trees, it must be middle or late spring.

The auto car stopped before a sprawling abode. Was this the dwelling he was to stay in? Didn’t anyone own land bigger than a pig trough in this time? Many houses, as far as the eye could see, sat on tiny pieces of soil. How could one fight and protect such a wee parcel of earth and stone?
Hardly worth the bluidy bother
. His heart contracted in his chest. What had become of his clan and the battle he’d seemingly been pulled out of? So many questions, and no answers forthcoming.

Skye tapped on the car window. He opened the door, reached for the sword, and climbed out. Standing next to her, he noticed the top of her head barely came to his shoulder. Holding the sword tight, he followed her to the door. Skye had taken a set of keys from him earlier. Stepping across the threshold the sights of so many foreign objects set his mind in a whirl. A mirror hung on the wall in the hallway. He would have to look in it at some point. Leaning the sword against the wall, he turned toward the mirror. The man in the reflection was too bluidy pretty by far. Yet, he could see some of himself in the face. The cheekbones were similar, the hair color the same. The eyes nearly the same shade of green. But it wasn’t him. Not really.

“What did you say the name of this man is?” he asked Skye, who watched him in the reflection.

“Roderick Thorburn, and what in hell are you talking about?”

Thorburn
. By all the saints and apostles, could this man be kin? The last name was too much of a coincidence. His legs felt soft suddenly, and he staggered. The wee lass helped him to a nearby chair.

“I never should’ve listened to you. I should’ve told the doctor you think you’re someone else.” She reached in his coat pocket and pulled out a folded leather pouch. She opened it and thrust it toward him. “There, your driver’s license with your picture. You’re Roderick Thorburn.”

He glanced at the license. Roderick Cailin Thorburn. Born 1983. He studied the picture and compared it to the reflection he had just seen. If this Roderick was around thirty, and he certainly looked that age, then the year could be—2012 or 2013.
Bluidy fookin’ hell
. What were the odds the lad’s middle name was his own?

How to convince the lass? He couldn’t, not while he occupied this body. Cailin inhaled, held the breath, then exhaled.
Steady on
. He was a warrior, a highlander, and he could amend to any situation. This was a new challenge, a new battle, and he would prevail. He had to keep his mind clear and focused. Adjusting to this new place—and time—would take all his courage. A warrior had to understand the ground on which he stood, assess his enemy’s strengths, weaknesses, and habits—and adjust accordingly. And this he would do, as difficult as it might be.

“Listen, Skye. I am from 1814. I swear this on the honor of my clan.” He stood, reached for the sword leaning against the wall, and pulled it out of the scabbard. He swung the blade around his head in a perfect arc. Tossing the sword behind his back, he caught it and whipped it around to his front in another deft move. He lowered the sword point-side down in front of him and his hands gripped the pommel. “This is my sword, the one I carried into battle. I am a warrior of the clan Macbeth. I had it in my hand when I was pulled from my place in time. Think about it, lass. We both are called Thorburn? You say this Roderick held the sword before he swooned? There is druid magic at work here, no mistake.”

Chapter Three

Skye barely registered his words. She was still staring at his sexy sword. How in hell had he learned those moves? She marveled once again at his potent, masculine presence. Somehow, it seemed to have increased, unless she was more attracted to him than she’d originally thought. Admitting she was simultaneously impressed and turned on, she then thought of his words.
Eighteen fourteen. Warrior. Battle. Druid. Magic
.

She subconsciously stepped back from him. The red welt on his forehead still looked angry and swollen. But this delusion seemed too detailed to spring from a crack in the noggin.

“
Briagha, sibh glé briagha
,” he whispered.

“What did you say, Roderick?”

He tossed the sword to the chair and strode toward her with stealthy purpose.

“Cailin. You will call me Cailin. No’ this Roderick, agreed?”

He cupped her face; his fingertips stroked her jaw. Bolts of electric heat moved through her body straight to her toes. Her brain grew foggy and confused from his intoxicating touch. Drool would dribble down her chin at any moment. Skye gulped deeply. The smart thing to do would be to humor him.

“Okay, Cailin. Whatever you want.”

He leaned down and his mouth captured hers. Soft, hot, heat and full, talented lips. Roderick…Cailin—whatever—kissed her as she’d never been before. It was fierce, commanding, and sensual as hell. Yet he tempered the forceful action with the gentle touch of his fingers as they caressed her cheeks. He moved down her neck, stroking with heated purpose while his mouth continued its plunder.

Okay, this was
way
hotter than when he’d had her against the wall in the studio earlier. Her physical response was immediate. Her breasts tightened, her nipples hardened, and her stomach dipped to the floor. He slipped his tongue between her teeth and curled around hers in an intimate, desirable dance.
To hell with it
. She flung her arms around his neck and stood on her tippy-toes to take more of his devastating kiss.