Sword of the Highlander

She certainly didn’t sleep well. Cassidy opened one eye slowly as sunlight drifted in her window. The Highlander was still there, sitting in the chair with his eyes closed, the great swords crossed over muscular thighs. Not a dream then. Her body felt hot, unsatisfied, and needing to be touched. She didn’t remember ever waking up to her fiancé with this longing
ache
…but Aubrey was an intellectual who compartmentalized his life. He would probably laugh at her if she tried to describe every nerve ending tingling…waiting…
wanting
to be touched.

But then, how many women in the twenty-first century woke up to find a medieval warrior in their bedrooms?

Sword of the Highlander

Cynthia Breeding

From the original Highland Press Publishing anthology

Lochs and Lasses © 2011

Sword of the Highlander © 2011 Cynthia Breeding

Cover Copyright © Amber Wentworth

Sword of the Highlander

2012

One

Cassidy Gordan clicked the off button on her cell and told herself not to be upset because her fiancé, Aubrey Fournier, had canceled yet another date. On the sidewalk outside her medieval costume and artifact shop just off Haight, tourists bustled past, cheerfully loud and boisterous. The early spring afternoon had turned unusually warm for San Francisco and brilliant sunlight lit the stained-glass depiction of St. George and the Dragon on the front door. She should be happy. Aubrey had just been busy these past two weeks.

“A problem, little one?” her friend, Carlotta Roselli, asked.

Cassidy shook her head. “Aubrey’s on his way to the airport. He has to fly to New York to see about a Hepplewhite dining suite a private owner wants to sell.”

“Ah, but that is good news, no?”

“No. I mean, yes.” Cassidy smiled wanly. She should be glad—and she was—that Aubrey was such a successful antiques dealer. At twenty-seven, she had nearly despaired of finding an eligible man in this eclectic city. She just wished his business partner, Eugene, weren’t so afraid of flying that Aubrey had to make all the trips. “It’s just that I’d planned to make a special dinner tonight…Dungeness crab with Fettucine Alfredo.”

Carlotta sighed and patted her flat stomach. “I wish I could eat like that, my pet, but I have to watch every carb these days.”

Cassidy’s face warmed guiltily. She had been blessed—or cursed, if her sparse curves were an indication—with a fast metabolism. Carlotta was voluptuously curvy in all the right places and, at forty-five, still able to attract men like flies to sticky paper, although that might have to do with her golden skin, dark hair and eyes, and natural vivaciousness as well. Cassidy was her polar-opposite:  tall, slender, fair-skinned, with hair neither gold nor red, but something most people called ‘strawberry.’ She often wondered how they’d come to be friends, but Carlotta had introduced Aubrey to her as well.

“I’ll probably just order take-out later,” she said. “Mr. Sinclair sent a medieval sword by private courier earlier that he wants me to catalog.”

“And where is your elusive boss these days?” Carlotta asked.

“The last time he called, he was in Saudi. Something about a scimitar from the Crusades that had been uncovered. You know how interested he is in ancient swords.”

Carlotta waved her hand toward a locked door leading to a back room filled with authentic medieval artifacts and not just replicas like the ones in the front of the store. “I have no idea why any of you are interested in such old stuff, other than to sell it at a good price.”

Cassidy nearly cringed. Her boss, whom she’d only met once in person since he traveled continuously in search of ancient relics, would probably have an apoplexy if he heard such talk. But then, how could she explain a love for the past to someone who lived so very much in the moment?

Carlotta flashed her a wide smile and patted her hand. “Do not worry, my sweet. If I ever meet your mysterious boss, I will mind my manners and pretend to be interested. Now, I must run. I’m meeting a new man for drinks at the Hilton tower and I want to be only a little bit late.”

Cassidy smiled. “Where did you meet this one?

Her friend shrugged. “At the fragrance counter at Macy’s. He was selecting an aftershave. I told him I liked a different brand better.”

“And of course he asked you out.”

“Something like that.” Carlotta tossed her hair back and grinned. “You know, my pet, you shouldn’t sit home tonight just because Aubrey is off to New York. You’re still a free woman.”

She shook her head. “I really have to catalog that sword.”

“Well, then—” Carlotta gave her a quick hug and kissed the air beside her cheek—“perhaps I shall send some infinitely sensual, sexy man to you. You’re too young to keep your nose stuck in this musty place. Ta-ta.”

Cassidy shook her head as Carlotta left, wishing she had some of the casual flippancy that came so naturally to her friend. Locking the front door, Cassidy flipped the ‘Closed’ sign in place. Mr. Sinclair was most insistent that real artifacts be handled with utmost security. And who knew what this sword would be worth? He had purchased it from a private investor, sight unseen.

Cassidy picked up the long box and carried it to the table where she carefully undid the tape and tried to lift the heavy sword from its nesting. A Scottish claymore, nearly five feet in length. The hilt was overlaid in gold and a large ruby winked red fire from the pommel. It might have been a ceremonial sword, except the blade looked too sharp and too thick not to have been used in battle. She closed both hands on the grip, trying to imagine how big and muscular a Highlander would have needed to be to swing the mighty sword over his head and bring it down.

She frowned slightly as she noticed some slight scratches in the gold. Leaning closer, Cassidy realized the scratches were really some sort of writing, possibly Gaelic. Her pulse quickened as she traced a fingertip along the fine lines. Given her fertile imagination, she could almost hear a pitched battle on some remote, craggy hill, swords clanging, shields clashing, while men grunted and slashed their way to gain the footage to the top. The warrior wielding the sword led the charge.

A crash from the front room brought her out of her reverie. It sounded like the empty armor from one of the two knights that stood near the front door. A feral cat must have gotten inside the store. Quickly, Cassidy shoved the sword and its box into the cabinet next to the table, automatically locking it, and slipped the key inside her pants pocket. The second knight crashed to the floor. The darn cat must be going berserk. She rushed for the door and flung it open, only to stumble to such an abrupt halt that she nearly landed on her backside.

A man straddled the second knight, punching the armor and tearing parts off, scattering it everywhere. Cassidy blinked. The man was dressed as a Highlander, a kilt of bright blue squares interwoven with red, black, and yellow hiked high on bare, well-muscled thighs. Powerful biceps bulged as he fought the armor. Long, black hair flowed over broad shoulders that strained under the linen of his
leine
. An empty, leather baldric strapped across his back and Cassidy saw then that he held a claymore, nearly as big as the one in the back room, in his right hand.

He stilled suddenly, as though aware of her presence, and turned slowly, holding an empty helmet in his other hand. His eyes glittered golden and as predatory as a hawk. Cassidy took an involuntary step backwards as he studied her.

Slowly he stood, towering a good foot taller than her. He moved toward her with the stealth and grace of a panther stalking its prey. Was he high on drugs? He didn’t weave and the weapon certainly was lethal. Cassidy glanced toward the back door. She would never have enough time to get to it and the safety of the back room. Maybe she could diffuse the situation.

“Nice costume,” she said. “We rent costumes. Were you…were you looking for something like it? We have several…” She let her voice trail off, realizing she was prattling.

He frowned and looked down at his plaid and then back at her, his golden eyes traveling slowly over her T-shirt and tight jeans. His eyes darkened to molten whisky. “’Tis ye who are dressed strangely.” His deep baritone voice would have made her knees turn to jelly if she weren’t so afraid she might die in the next few minutes. He looked at the empty helmet again. “Ye appear to be in nae danger. Why have ye summoned me, lass?”

Summoned him
? Maybe she was hallucinating. Maybe the incense burning on the store’s counter held something more potent than sandalwood. She was just imagining a hot, medieval warrior had battled an empty coat of armor. Except for the fact that the two empty knights lay scattered on the floor around her.

Then another thought hit her and she almost laughed. Carlotta. Carlotta had sent this man. Where she found him, or how she’d time to costume him, Cassidy didn’t know. But this was definitely something Carlotta would do.

“I get it, Carlotta put you up to this, didn’t she? She’s always—”

“I ken not who Carlotta is,” he interrupted, the square angle of his jaw hardening, “and I dinna have time to be blethering. I must be getting back to the MacBheatha. That young fool, Duncan, be making a fine muck of things, and we do battle soon.”

Turning, he stomped to the door and threw it open, stepping out onto the sidewalk. Before Cassidy could move, he stepped back inside, slamming the door behind him.

“What be this place? What be those noisy, metal monsters out there?” His eyes narrowed. “Be ye a witch?”

“No! Of course not. What’s wrong with you?” She began to have a sickening feeling that he might be a lunatic. The area around Haight-Ashbury still drew some strange types. Perhaps she should talk more gently to him. “I’m not a witch. Those are just cars outside. Harmless.”

“Cars?” He looked as though she were speaking a foreign language. “What be cars?”

Dear Lord. He was more mentally-challenged than she thought. She looked at the ripped armor lying on the floor. He had violent tendencies as well. Where was her cell? She needed to call 911. Fast.

As if he sensed her thoughts, he moved closer. Cassidy bolted for the back door, but he lunged, so quickly he was just a blur, and she found herself pressed up against his hard chest. His scent—her nose was practically buried in his sash—smelled clean, of soap and leather. Hardly the smell of a man on the streets. And, even though his arms felt like granite, he wasn’t hurting her. She breathed a little easier as he set her apart from him, but kept hold of her arm.

“Dinna run, lass, and dinna be afraid. Tell me where I be.”

Cassidy stared into his eyes, expecting to see the glazed look of someone who might be stoned—or worse. But his eyes were clear, his tawny gaze focused on her.

“You’re in San Francisco.”

He shook his head. “I ken no such place.”

“America,” she added.

He frowned. “How far is this place from Alba?”

Now it was her turn to frown. Alba was the old Gaelic term for Scotland and he certainly had a Scot’s burr. Maybe he was an actor. Carlotta could still be behind this.

But, for now, she would play along until she could get to her cell.

“It’s across the sea. Far, far away.”

“How do I get back?”

“You could fly. That would be easiest.”

His eyes widened. “Ye mock me? Ye know man cannot fly.”

“No. No. I meant, in a plane.” When he looked blank, she added. “It’s another metal…thing that you sit in.” Dear Lord. She wished she knew more about mental illness. What was his problem? He was glowering again.

“What year of the Lord be this?” he asked suspiciously.

Cassidy decided to pretend to believe him. If he were an actor, he’d have to fall out-of-character eventually. If he were more dangerous though… “2012.”

He dropped her arm in surprise. “It canna be!”

“All right,” she soothed, “what year would you like it to be?”

“Dinna trifle with me, lass,” he warned. “’Tis the year 1040.”

Cassidy’s mind whirred through the history books she’d read. In 1040, Scotland was still warring against itself and Britain hadn’t yet decided to do any serious invading, probably due to the fact that its armies battled Norse invasions. Skirmishes along the Borders were common though. Who was the king? She furrowed her brow. Malcolm II had been killed and his grandson, Duncan, had assumed the throne. The land was unsettled. Duncan… The Highlander had mentioned a Duncan. She felt her eyes widen.

“Who are you?” Her voice dropped to nearly a whisper.

He drew himself up to his full height, towering over her. “Niall MacChumail, descendent of the Great Féinn.”

Cassidy stared at him. “The Great Féinn? As in the mythical warrior who led nine thousand of the most powerful soldiers in the old Gaelic world and won his battles with a magical sword?” This man might be sicker than she thought if he were suffering illusions of grandeur.