Rogue on the Rollaway. Shannon MacLeod

without hesitation, blanching white at the mere thought of sticking a needle in his flesh, whatever the reason.

      He threw back his head and laughed at her adamant squeamishness, and her entire body reverberated with the warm, rich sound. Leaning in closer, his lips stopped just short of brushing hers. “How can I repay yer kindess…” he began then suddenly grabbed her by both arms and held her still, searching her eyes.

      Colleen struggled in vain against the unexpected vice like grip. “Let me go,” she hissed.

      “Steady, lass,” he soothed. With one large hand he reached inside her robe and curled his fingers around the necklace, raising it to his eyes. “Ye have my amulet,” Faolan whispered in a subdued voice, “and I’m guessing I know now how I got here. What I’d like to be knowing is how ye came by it.”

      Colleen gasped at the intimate contact and huffed, “My grandmother gave it to me.” Well, she hoped she huffed. His touch was actually a lot more exciting than she wanted to admit and she wasn’t quite sure if she was ready for him to let her go. He released both her and the amulet. It fell back to her chest, hot against her tingling skin. “What does my necklace have to do with anything?”

      With an enigmatic smile Faolan said, “Ye wished on it and now here I am, yers to command as ye will, Princess.”

      He picked his shirt up, shook it out and slipped it over his head while Colleen tried to work her way through the cryptic comment. “Who are you?” she asked again. His stomach rumbled in answer and they both stared down at it. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” she frowned, her tone a little less sharp than before.

      “Days,” he admitted. “Been living on dry bread crusts and water for at least a sennight. I was actually….em…in the process of being hung when ye called. Yer timing was most fortuitous.” He actually had the nerve to grin at that admission.

      “Hung? As in from the neck until dead?” she cried, jumping back. “What did you do?” His large hand shot out to catch her ankle as she scrambled to get away from him, squeaking in alarm and swatting at his hand to free herself.

      “I spurned the attentions of the wrong lady and she took enough offense to accuse me of witchcraft,” Faolan confessed in a rush. “Naught more than that.” He gave her another smile. “Ye have my word, freely given, I’ll no’ harm ye.” When she relaxed and stopped struggling, he released her ankle, spreading his hands in a gesture of peace. Refocusing on his injuries, he worked his shoulders gingerly to stretch the muscles. “My gaolers were less than charitable. Most of these,” he indicated the cuts, “are the result of their tender mercies.”

      Colleen collected herself and gave him a tentative smile back. “I don’t know why I trust you’re telling the truth, but I do,” she said. “Of course, if I find out you’re lying, you’ll be back in jail before you know what hit you, got it?”

      Faolan gave her a solemn nod of acquiescence. “Got…it.” The phrase sounded odd on his tongue.

      “Good.” Colleen kept her eyes trained on the strange man. It’s a dream, just go with it. Her ingrained from birth Southern hospitality surfaced, and Colleen got down to the serious business of being a good hostess in spite of the bizarre situation. “Okay, your clothes are filthy, you’re starving and your cuts are clean but what you really need is a bath. Which do you want first?”

      His eyes closed and a soft smile crossed his face. “I was right. ’Tis an angel ye are. Were ye to permit me a bath first, I would be forever in yer debt.” He rubbed the rough stubble on his jaw, obviously several days worth. “This itches like the very devil.”

      “Shower it is, then,” she said, getting to her feet. She reached out her hand to assist him up, and when he clasped it in his own, a tangible charge of electricity ran through both of their bodies. She stared down at it in shock before yanking hers back. Aghast at her own rudeness, she glanced up to meet his eyes…and up…and up. “My God, how tall are you?” she squeaked once he had risen to his full height.

      “Aye, well,” Faolan laughed. It came out as weel in his soft burr. “Tall enough, I reckon. As ye can see, my feet just barely reach the floor.”

      Deciding to let her slight go unmentioned, Colleen led him to the large master bath where he cast a doubtful glance at the small bathtub. “Shower’s here,” she busied herself getting the nice guest towels–never been used–from the bathroom linen cabinet, “shampoo, conditioner and liquid soap are on the rack. It’s sensitive skin, hope that’s okay.” She pulled a new toothbrush and disposable razor from the drawer and laid them next to the sink. “I don’t have shaving cream, so you’ll have to use soap. Drop your dirty clothes outside the door and I’ll throw them in the washer.” The next hurdle presented itself as she took in–what a magnificent chest–his size. “What are you going to put on, though?” she thought out loud then assured him, “Don’t worry, I’ll find something.” And with that she turned and left the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

      Colleen returned to the living room and turned off the TV, replacing the DVD in its case. Surveying the irreparable damage to her coffee table, she remembered Marc had picked it out and decided for that reason alone she didn’t care about its loss. It was only moments later before she was inexplicably drawn back to the bathroom. It was silent as a tomb inside. Waiting outside the door, she listened for several long heartbeats before calling through. “Mr. MacIntyre? Is everything all right?”

      “Nay, not really,” came the mournful reply.

      Colleen knocked on the door then cracked it open to find him still fully dressed and standing in the center of the bathroom with the frustration evident on his chiseled features. “Where are the buckets? Where do ye draw water? I’m not…I doona ken all this,” Faolan snapped, waving his hand around impatiently.

      She gave him a long, hard look. “Can I ask you a really stupid question?”

      “If ye feel ye must,” he muttered under his breath, glaring sideways at the faucet handles as if he half expected them to bite.

      “When you left…wherever you were…what year was it?” She held her breath, waiting for the perfectly reasonable answer that would make all of this seem a little more …a little more what? More believable, less surreal, more plausible, less B movie, or any combination of the above would be fine.

      “The year 1403. I was in Alba,” Faolan replied absently, opening the linen closet to continue his search for the elusive buckets. His eyes widened as he ran his fingers over the towels and sheets inside. “Soft,” he murmured. He moved past Colleen and returned to the sink. He took a deep breath and gave one of the handles a quick turn, jumping when the water came pouring out. At once, he dropped to his knees to yank open the cabinet doors beneath the sink, rapping the exposed PVC tubes with his knuckle. “And this mayhap draws the water in?” He didn’t give her time to answer. “That would mean,” he said, rising to his feet, “that all these…pipes…are somehow connected to a well, mayhap behind the walls…” He knocked against the flowered wallpaper, listening for hollowness.

      Faolan’s attention was drawn to a wall switch near the mirror, and when he gave it an experimental jiggle, the row of round incandescent bulbs atop the vanity mirror went off, plunging the room into darkness. He muttered something unintelligible under his breath, flicked the switch again then gasped and blinked. He stared at the bright lights in disbelief. “And what manner of candles are these?” he whispered, reaching up to touch one before Colleen could stop him. With a muttered oath, he yanked his burnt fingers back and stuck the offended digits into his mouth.

      “Here,” Colleen sighed in exasperation. She grabbed his hand and shoved it under the running water. A soft sound of relief escaped his lips when the cold water eased the burning and when he smiled at her concern, his response to her question sunk in.

      Alba? Scotland! “Well, that explains everything,” she said with an air of nonchalance she in no way felt. That confirmed it. She was dreaming. Tomorrow