Highland Pull (Highland Destiny 2) (4 page)

He stepped into his courtyard, and took a long pull from the sweaty bottle as he walked over to the lounge chair in the shade. He glanced across to the sunny area of the patio and stopped dead in his tracks. There was a woman lying on a chaise, covered in oil, and nearly naked.

In fact, she was so nearly naked he was sure his hand was bigger across than the piece of fabric that covered her nether region. Her long legs stretched out in front of her, her feet slightly apart. Her waist was small, he thought he might span it with his hands. And her breasts! They were magnificent. He considered them for a while and was sure he knew those breasts. They were the breasts he’d noticed at the jazz concert that belonged to the honey-blonde.

He let his gaze drift up to her face, and he was right, it was the same woman.
Well, this is a bit of a fankle. Here is a nearly naked woman in my own backyard, who from all appearances is sound asleep.
He suspected she wouldna appreciate him ogling her, but ‘twas a hard thing not to do, given all that slippery golden skin on display.

Suddenly he realized her breasts had been pressed together, lifting them even higher, and he tried to pay attention to the cause of the shift, not on the breasts themselves. He pulled his focus back a little and saw that her arms were extended in front of her, the left hand supporting the right. The right hand was holding a gun, and the gun was pointed at him.

He deliberately turned his back on her, arranged his lounge chair so that it would be facing hers, propped the back up, and then sat down. He took a long drink from his bottle, and only then did he allow his gaze to meet hers.

“Lass, you might want to put that gun down, before you hurt one of us. Even in America, I believe ‘tis against the law to shoot a man in his own home.”

“This is just your bad day, buddy. I’m Detective Close, New Orleans PD. You’re under arrest. Put your hands behind your head.”

Gabhran lazily took another long pull from his ale before setting the bottle on the table,
then he laced his hands behind his head and leaned back as though he was contemplating a nap.

“
Och, lass, ‘tis fair distracting the way your breasts move when you have them pushed together like that. Do you think you could come pat me down?” he asked, pointing at the conspicuous bulge between his legs with his chin and leaving no doubt as to what he wanted her to pat. 

“Let’s see some identification,” she spat.

“`Tis in my pocket, lass, would you care to pull it out yourself?” he asked with a wiggle of his brows and a smile. He knew he was aggravating her; he just couldn’t seem to help himself.

The matter of a driver’s license was of no concern. He’d taken care of that along with obtaining a work visa, and a visiting physician’s permit. Alfred’s extensive family connections seemed to extend into every city, state, and federal office in the state of Louisiana. He’d been examined, interviewed, fingerprinted, and sworn to protect patients and the Constitution. He
would happily share the information with her.

“Take it out of your pocket with two fingers and toss it over here,” she demanded through clenched teeth.

Gabhran did as she directed and realized he was getting more aroused by the minute. Her oil-slicked body was glistening in the sunlight, and the scent of coconut filled the air. He would love to hear the lass tell him how to make love to her in just such a fashion. Toss me down there, touch me here, taste me there.
Och, ‘tis a sweet torture to look at her like this.

Gabhran thought he might melt sitting there, she was so damn hot. He deliberately tossed his wallet so that it landed about six inches beyond her comfortable reach. He wanted to watch her lean over to retrieve it. He hadn’t counted on her police training.

Rather than leaning over to one side, and leaving herself off balance, the woman placed both feet firmly on the ground and straddled the lounge. With her knees wide apart there was only a thin piece of material covering most, but not all, of her most private parts. He could see blonde curls peeking out, and a soft fold of skin that wasn’t completely covered by the narrow band of fabric. He swallowed hard, cleared his throat, and forced his gaze away.

*

Never taking her eyes from him, she braced her feet on the ground on either side of the chaise lounge, before she leaned over to pick up his wallet. She set it on a well-oiled leg, and with one hand she pulled out the stack of plastic cards, before glancing down, looking for a driver’s license.

There it was right in front of her, a Louisiana license with his Burgundy address, a picture, and personal statistics that told her he was thirty years old, six feet, five inches tall and weighed two hundred and twenty-five pounds. Hair color black, eyes blue, just the facts.

Of course that failed to account for the other features Randi noticed. He had a strong, chiseled face, and a straight nose. His jaw was brushed with a blue-black shadow of a beard, and he had a deep cleft in his chin. Black waves of hair fell below his shoulders and his blue eyes were really a light blue-gray, the color of steel. She couldn’t help but notice that he had a significant bulge in his tight jeans, hung just to the left of center.

Her fight or flight system had been activated when she’d thought there was an intruder. Now she suddenly had a surfeit of adrenaline, her hands felt shaky, and she lowered her weapon before she betrayed any sign of weakness. She was faced with multiple embarrassments. She had pulled a gun on her new landlord and she was practically naked. And he was, well…
he is just yummy! Could this be any more embarrassing?

Before she could think of words to ease her own discomfort, he was up and moving toward the house. “I am going to go inside and get us fresh drinks
, lass. I will return in a minute, and we can properly introduce ourselves,” he said. She bit back a smile at the ragged sound of his voice.

She appreciated that he turned his head away to offer her some privacy. Without looking back, he went into the house. As soon as his back was turned, Randi slipped the bikini top on and added the sheer cotton cover up for an extra layer. She thought about wrapping the towel around herself for good measure, but that seemed a bit of overkill.

When he stepped back into the courtyard carrying two beers, she spoke up, wanting to clear the air. “Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t know who you were, and when I woke to find you staring at me, I thought… well, I thought you were stalking me,” she finished lamely.

“No harm, lass. My name is Gabhran, but you can call me Gav.” He held the bottle out to her,
then resumed his seat.

Randi cursed herself for remaining in the sun instead of moving to the shade when she’d had the chance. Now he would be able to see her, and
she was blinded by the late afternoon light.

“Shall I just call you Detective, then?” he asked. His question reminded her she was failing Southern Manners 101 by forgetting to introduce herself.

“Oh, sorry, I’m Miranda Close, but people call me Randi.” She took a nervous swallow of the ice-cold ale and gave a little moan of pleasure. “Thanks, this is perfect.”

“Why?”

“Why what?” she asked, a bit confused by his question.

“Why would people call you Randi, when Miranda is a lovely name for such a lovely lass?”

She flushed at his words. “I don’t know, it was just something my dad started calling me, I think he always wanted a boy, but all he got was me, so Randi it was.”

“I think it must be Miranda for me, lass,” he said softly.

His brogue caressed her name and sent a shiver down her spine. This man was dangerous. It wasn’t just his physical presence. Randi could taste his essence in the air.

Randi was gifted when it came to reading people. It was what made her good at her job. So good, that she had become the youngest detective in the history of the NOPD. Of course, the fact that half the force left after Hurricane Katrina didn’t hurt either. She wondered why she couldn’t get a good read off Gabhran.

There was a duality about him, and she couldn’t sense if they were complimentary or opposing parts. Maybe she would be able to figure it out if she spent enough time with him.
Now that’s a dangerous thought, girl.
Her mind went to the size of him, and she considered proportions.
Oh dear.
Again a shiver passed through her, and this was definitely a shiver of anticipation. Desire coursed through her before she belatedly resurrected her barriers. She would not go there again.

He stood abruptly, drawing her attention back before she slipped into the past. “’Twas nice to meet you
, lass. You may sunbathe out here any time; I give you my word I’ll not invade your privacy.”

When he left the courtyard this time he also left a trail of sadness that made her wonder just what the handsome Scot was hiding from
.

In New Orleans, the mentally ill had been displaced long before Hurricane Katrina had closed all the city’s hospitals. There were people everywhere you looked who needed assistance, whether from pre-existing conditions or from the trauma wrought by the hurricane and its aftermath. They lived in public and private shelters, in vast fields of identical white trailers, in mold-infested houses, condemned neighborhoods, and street corners. Professional athletes, busy office professionals, street musicians or unemployed—it didn’t seem to matter. Someone had to help.

A year after the disaster, recognizing a need for increased mental health services, the state launched an experimental program that provided outpatient services throughout local communities
, rather than trying to house all the patients in one large hospital. The small mental health facility on Dauphine Street, within walking distance of Gabhran’s house, was one of those clinics. Housed in a small mansion that had once been converted to a brothel, it accommodated fifteen residential patients, and served several hundred clients that received outpatient care. As always the budget was tight. Gav had counted on that.

The director of the clinic was a woman in her late fifties, slim, sharply dressed, and thoroughly professional to the tips of her manicured nails. She nearly swooned when Gabhran handed over a Visiting Physician’s Permit, a sort of temporary courtesy extended to consulting physicians who were licensed in other jurisdictions. Once again, the intrepid Alfred had come through with another relative in an important position. This one was a cousin who just happened to be the Chief of Staff at the big hospital in Baton Rouge. Cousin Leroy had been persuaded to request assistance on a case, smoothing the way for the provisional permit. Gav had wondered if this was part of Alfred’s special magick, or if it was merely a by-product of a large extended family in the South.

Gabhran told her that he knew state funding was tight, so he wondered if he might volunteer at the clinic, while he decided what he wanted to do next with his life. Then he’d provided a copy of his application for a standard Louisiana medical license, his current licenses, specialty endorsements, transcripts, and references from the Chief of Staff at the Edinburgh Hospital.

It was one of the nagging inconsistencies in his life that he couldn’t remember attending medical school or acquiring his certifications. There was no doubt he must have, because the knowledge and skills were there. So was the documentation. It was just the damn memories that were lost when he settled into a new reality. It was why he had to find the mysterious patient whose story was so similar to his own.

The director did what all good bureaucrats did, accepted his offer on the spot, and planned to follow up on his references later. Because she was very good at directing, she also arranged for the other doctor’s on site to request Gav as a consulting physician on their most complicated cases. Although it might be as much as three months before he was fully licensed, the temporary permit would allow him to do what he needed.

Now finally, after two long weeks of treating a myriad of patients, he was on his way to meet the woman he had determined through a process of elimination must have been the subject of the journal article. The woman who might provide some clue that would help explain why he kept getting lost in his own life.

The woman known as Alysone Smith sat in a small parlor on the first floor of the clinic. She was a stunningly beautiful young woman with silky ash blonde hair, creamy white skin, and sad-looking eyes that were an impossible shade of violet. He felt an instant connection and realized that honesty was the only way to reach her.

Gabhran rummaged around in his head until he felt that place the Druids had been touching with their minds when they’d tried to recruit him. He was more aware now of that internal place of power, and although he’d tried once or twice before, he was still unsure how exactly to harness the magick. He no longer questioned its existence. He tried to use it now to sense the young woman, to reach inside any latent power she might have. It was a clumsy effort, but judging from her quick gasp and the flash of her gaze, it worked.

“Alysone, my name is Gabhran MacLachlan, and I am a doctor from Scotland. I know your story is true. The feeling of being shifted into a new life has also happened to me.” He spoke quickly, his rushed words infused with sincerity.

Her violet eyes filled with tears as her gaze met his and they stared at each other a long moment. “Is this a trick?” Her voice was a whisper, and her hands twisted together in her lap.

“Nay, lass, I also am lost or whatever you want to name the feeling. It happens to me every five years or so. I seem to be remembering a bit more each time, but I can sense my time is nearly up. We must work together to find answers before I am lost again, or I fear we will both have to start over.”

Alysone was silent and appeared to be weighing his words. Her situation was tenuous; the medical team had exhausted traditional treatments and had become frustrated by her lack of improvement. He’d read her file and knew that her primary physician
, Dr. Taylor, was starting to take her failure to progress as a personal affront.

Finally, she spoke. “They want to use shock treatments on me. Dr. Taylor plans to begin next week. I’m trying to convince him I’m getting better, but he keeps pressuring me to sign the consent.”

It was time for a hard truth. “Alysone, I have reviewed your files. Dr. Taylor sees you as mentally unstable and incapable of rational decision-making. He’s considering asking for a court to intervene. He is going to approach the people who claim you as family.”

“I didn’t know what to do when I woke up surrounded by strangers, so I agreed to let them put me here. But now, I have nowhere else to go…” she trailed off.

“Aye, lass, I know. I will help you. You will have a breakthrough today while we are talking. Not a complete recovery, you understand, but enough so that you will request for me to be your doctor. I will coach you so that others will believe you when you tell them you are better, but you must follow my directions. Can you do that? Will you follow my directions?”

“Yes,” said Alysone, and her voice
was strong. “Don’t let them do this to me.”

****

Alysone met with Gav every few days, supposedly to work through her issues. She’d claimed a major breakthrough during her session with Gabhran and had finally remembered being repeatedly abused as a child. The team had gathered to discuss her story and developed a new working theory: Someone had recently abused Alysone again, and that, coupled with emotional trauma suffered as a result of the hurricane, had triggered a total repression of her memory.

Gabhran told the other doctors that it was their fine groundwork that laid the foundation, and he had just happened to be the doctor who was with her during her breakthrough. Neither of them wanted to alienate anyone or make
them suspicious that she was not on the road to recovery.

They spent their time together exploring the similarities of their stories. Gabhran's memories were more defined than hers. He had very specific recollections of starting over many other times. He would be plagued for months by the feeling he was about to be lost, nothing more specific than that, just lost. One night he would go to sleep full of memories of the life he was living, and when he woke the next morning it was under completely new circumstances.

He would wake in a new house, in a new city, with a new medical practice. He told her how he never seemed to age, looking much as he did now for as long as he could remember, but the eras in which he lived changed. He was sure he’d been a physician outside of Glasgow in the late nineteenth century, and he remembered living in a small village near Inverness. He had other memories, as well.

In his experiences, there had been constants. As soon as he woke up in his “new” life, he needed to find the papers that were always there somewhere nearby in his new reality. They were the
blueprint for his new life: school transcripts, licensing documentation, a history of the new place he found himself.

Alysone had no such reference points. She had awakened one morning in a strange bed, an unfamiliar house, and a man she’d never seen before in her life claimed to be her brother. The problem was, her “brother” had family pictures, her birth certificate, and all manner of documents to prove who Alysone was. She had never seen any of it before.

Since that day, Alysone had been trying to convince every person she’d come onto contact with that this was not her life. Not surprisingly, no one believed her. She had vague memories of other realities, other people she’d known, places she’d lived. Actually, memories was too strong of a term, it was more like living in a constant state of déjà vu.

Now finally someone believed her. More than that, he had experienced similar disruptions of time. Their meetings hadn’t restored any of her actual memories, but sometimes the things he remembered stirred feelings of recognition within her.

All talk of shock treatment had terminated, and Dr. Taylor was happily writing a paper explaining how long term therapy was beginning to pay big dividends in the care of Patient A, his name for the patient in his articles. Life at the hospital had become easier for her; she could walk through the buildings and grounds, as long as she checked in and out at the main desk. She spent most days outside, but her nights had taken on a life of their own. In her dreams, she thought she must be in Scotland.

*

The skirt of her lavender gown swept along the stone passage, her slippers made no sound against the wooden floors. The rush lights provided shadowy illumination as she hurried through the hallway. Turning a corner, she came to an abrupt stop. She had been so sure this passageway led to the servant’s stairs to the kitchens. How could this be? She whirled around, and with a little sob, she began running back in the direction from which she’d come.

She gathered the folds of her skirts to still the rustling silk and crept past the door to the master’s chamber. She dare not make any sound lest she disturb him. She turned the corner leading to the grand staircase, and stopped again. This passageway had also been walled off.
I am trapped!

Her thoughts seemed electric in her head. She couldn’t focus. The only rooms she could access were her chambers and the master’s. This was some dark magick,
of that she was certain. Perhaps she should wait in her chambers for the master to awaken and discover this treachery. He would fix this, if only she could ask him. But it wasn’t her place to speak to the master.
Is that right? We've never spoken? I can't remember, but if we've never spoken, how do I know of him?

She traced her hand along the cold stones of the castle wall and shivered against the chill in the air. Slowly, she made her way back through the corridor, trying to make sense of where she was and how she’d gotten there. Was this a dream?

She’d walked the whole length before she realized there was only one door left in the entire hallway, and it wasn’t hers. Her heart hammered in her chest. There was nowhere to go, nowhere but to the master’s chambers.
Will his room still be there, or will it have disappeared, too. Is he even inside? Do I want his help?

She slumped against the wall, bent her knees and slowly slid to the floor.
Dear God, what is happening?
She had no idea how long she sat like that, on the floor, head in her hands. Finally, she stood and steeled herself for the inevitable confrontation, and knocked softly on his door.

“Come in,” a voice called gruffly.

She entered the opulent chamber that was part bedroom, part sitting room. She closed the door behind her, and leaned against it for support, as she looked around. Two large chairs were placed at an angle in front of the fireplace on one side of the room. The main part of the room was dominated by a massive, four-poster bed with white silk drapes hanging from the ceiling that would surround the bed if loosened from their ties on each of the bed posts. There was a tapestry hanging from one wall, and in front of it was a large tub.

The master leaned against the mantle, one fist clenched at his side, staring into the fire. Without turning around he said in a low, whisky-rich brogue, “
Och, so you have finally returned to me, lass, as I have always known you would.”

He turned slowly then, and her gaze was irresistibly drawn to him. He stood more than a foot taller than she, long black hair, the color of coal flowed to his waist in silky waves. He was clad only in a kilt and worn leather
boots, his massive bare chest glowed golden, kissed by firelight. He stood with his feet apart, hands on his hips, arms akimbo, and looked every bit the conquering warrior.

He raked his gaze slowly up her body, and her knees felt weak at the heat in his eyes. Her breath came in short, quick pants, and she could think of no proper response. He was the master, she a mere servant, and yet there was a terrible longing within her breast. When he finally dragged his gaze up to meet hers, his black eyes were iridescent in the flickering light of the fire.

With a sigh, her knees buckled, and she sank to the floor.

Then he was beside her, lifting her, and pressing his lips to her hair.  “I have waited for this ten lifetimes; I would wait all of eternity.”

His words were the last thing she heard as her mind drifted into blackness.