Rogue on the Rollaway. Shannon MacLeod

coffee table was quite possibly the most beautiful man she had ever seen. He lay still as a stone, his long black hair spread out around him, eyes closed as if he were asleep. “Who are you?” she asked again.

      Several slow blinks revealed deep cerulean eyes fringed with thick dark lashes. He met and held her gaze, a lazy smile spreading across handsome chiseled features. “Beautiful lass, ye are,” he murmured. His eyes roamed over her in an inappropriate–although flattering, she had to admit–way, given his current circumstances.

      Colleen flushed under his perusal and struggled to regain her composure. “I asked you a question,” she snarled, “and I get an answer. Right now, mister or I call the cops.” She gave the bat a menacing shake for emphasis, grateful he couldn’t see her knees knocking through the couch.

      A look of uncertainty passed across his face. “Cops?” He lifted his head to survey his surroundings and his brow furrowed. “And what have I done for ye to threaten me with that club ye carry?” He struggled to sit up but fell back into the pile of wood, muttering a dark curse under his breath. “And have I no’ told ye already I mean ye no harm. If ye’d stop yer blustering for a moment, ye’ll see that I’m tied up tight, and I’d greatly appreciate it if ye’d remedy that.”

      Wait… What? “Why should I trust you?” she asked, a little less sharply than before. “How do I know you won’t…”

      He gave her a small smile that did strange and wonderful things to her heart. “Because I’m giving ye my word, and ’tis something I doona do lightly. Please.”

      Against her better judgment, she lowered the bat and moved toward him. He rolled to his side, and she saw he was telling the truth. His hands and arms were bound close behind him. She surveyed the tight knots. “Wait right there,” she said, and ran to the kitchen to get something sharp enough to cut away the thick bindings.

      The man rolled his eyes. “Och, aye. I’ll stay right here. And where exactly would I be going, do ye think?” he called after her.

      She returned a moment later with a steak knife. “No need to get snotty about it. I’m still thinking about calling the police,” she snapped before she began sawing away at the heavy ropes.

      He glanced back over his shoulder. “My apologies, lass. Just uncomfortable, I warrant.” His gaze wandered around the room, but when he looked back again it was to find her staring at his profile while she struggled to free him. “Far be it for me to tell ye yer business, but if ye doona mind, I’d appreciate it an’ ye’d pay a wee bit more attention to what yer cutting.” He softened the rebuke with a lopsided grin.

      Frowning with embarrassment, she returned her gaze to the task at hand, trying to place the strange accent and his odd manner of speech. The first rope fell away beneath the serrated blade and she started on the second with enthusiasm. He shifted as the ropes loosened, and sighed in relief when the final one was cut. Rubbing his wrists to get the blood flowing again, he sat up and regarded her with a solemn bow of his head. “Ye have my thanks. What’s yer name, lady?”

      “Colleen,” she answered.

      His full lips curved into a dazzling smile that stole her breath, his straight teeth flashing white against his bronzed skin. “’Tis a pretty name for a pretty lady. What’s yer family name?”

      Dimples. Sweet Jesus, the man had dimples. “O’Brien,” she said, regrouping rapidly from the effects of the stunner smile. “And you haven’t gotten around to telling me your name yet. And I’d like to know how you came to be lying on what’s left of my coffee table.”

      He ignored her question. “So yer a princess, then. I thought ye had a look of the Irish about ye with those enchanting green eyes,” he remarked, looking around the condo. “’Tis fine enough to be a palace, I’m thinkin’.” He saw Mel Gibson frozen on the TV screen and was transfixed, puzzlement evident on his face. Tearing his gaze away, he glanced back at Colleen, but his eyes kept flickering over to the screen as if expecting Mel to charge out at any minute brandishing his claymore.

      Colleen missed his disconcertion and snorted. “Princess? You must have hit your head pretty hard.”

      He turned an incredulous gaze to her before explaining, “O’Brien is the family name of the descendents of Brian Boru, the High King of Ireland. Yer of royal blood.” He stretched his arms and legs, blowing out a contented sigh when his joints cracked. “So tell me, Princess, where have I found myself? Yer accent is strange to me.”

      Well, then. It was obvious. She’d fallen asleep on the couch and was going to wake up any minute. This was definitely one of the most bizarre dreams she’d ever had. The man was seriously hot, though. Insane, but cute.

      “You’re in Brandon, Florida.”

      “Flo-ri-da?” he echoed.

      “United States,” she clarified. Any minute now…

      He shook his head and shrugged. “I suppose it matters not. What day is it?”

      She folded her arms over her chest. “I’m not telling you anything else until you tell me your name.”

      “Faolan MacIntyre at yer service, m’lady,” he grinned, inclining his head.

      “Fee-lawn,” Colleen repeated, “that’s an unusual name. I was trying to place your accent…”

      When he didn’t answer right away she realized she had lost him. His full attention was snared by the TV guide last seen lying on the coffee table, minding its own business. He rubbed the paper between his fingers then pointed to the cover. “Is this date correct?” he asked, the blood draining from his face.

      Her trepidation building, Colleen nodded. His attention remained riveted to the magazine, gazing in apparent amazement at the pictures. He snatched up two more magazines–the new issues of People and Cosmopolitan– looking bewildered as he flipped through both from cover to cover. While he skimmed through her light reading material, she took a good look at his unusual clothing. His once white linen shirt was dirty and torn, and he was wearing some sort of leather pants, the likes of which she had never seen outside a Renaissance faire. A battered pouch strung on a thin belt of worn leather nestled against his hip. His tall boots folded down mid calf and were covered in mud… “You get those filthy boots off my carpet right now,” she shrieked. “I just had it cleaned.”

      Faolan winced at her sharp tone. “As ye wish,” he muttered under his breath, and it was when he reached to tug them off that she saw the caked blood.

      “Oh, my God. You’re hurt,” Colleen cried, grabbing his hands and pulling them to look at his abraded wrists. The contact was electrifying, and she sucked in a breath when she glanced up and caught him looking at her with the same intensity. “Don’t move.” Both the carpet and her fear forgotten, she jumped up and ran to the bathroom, returning in moments with a first aid kit. “Get that shirt off,” she ordered, and without a word he shrugged out of it.

      Her mouth went dry at the sculpted muscles of his arms and chest covered in a light pelt of black curls. No steroids in this farm boy - those looked like real muscles. “Now hold still,” she said, wiping down the multitude of cuts and abrasions with antiseptic. She made a sound of sympathy at the crisscross of welts and cuts. “What on earth got hold of you?”

      Her stoic patient sucked in a sharp breath when she cleaned a deep, encrusted gash on his shoulder and she immediately apologized. “I’m sorry, it’s just…”

      Faolan shook his head. “Yer hands are gentler than most, Princess. Yer ministrations are welcome.”

      Colleen colored at his flattering words. “I’m not a princess. I manage a gift shop at the museum,” she corrected, focusing her attention on cleaning the gaping wound. “This one may need stitches,” she said.

      “In my eyes, ye are a princess,” Faolan murmured softly. “Mayhap even an angel.” He brushed a strand of hair from her eyes then turned a