Highlander’s Curse (10 page)

Oh, lord. That didn’t look at all like the “I’ve-never-heard-of-the-man” face.

“And just what might you be wanting with my Colin?”

Her
Colin?

A new suspicion hit Abby like a tidal wave, a suspicion that made her feel as if she might be sick all over the carpet in this lovely, ancient-looking lobby.

What if he was married? This woman did say her name was MacAlister.

“I. . . uh. . . he, that is, Colin . . .” Abby’s tongue felt remarkably as it had the time she’d visited the dentist and he’d had to give her Novocain twice to deaden her
gums. “I met Colin a few months ago when he visited Denver. I only wanted to stop by and say hello.”

Not true. She’d wanted much more than hello, though even to herself she couldn’t say what, exactly.

Almost immediately Margaret’s face brightened. “Well then, Miss, it’s no my Colin yer wanting. He’s no ever stepped foot in the States.”

“I beg your pardon?” Oh, his feet had been in the States, all right. Not only had they been in the States, they’d been in her bed. This woman might not want to believe her husband had been there—hell,
she
didn’t want to believe Colin had a wife!—but it was fact.

Clearly, she trod a fine line here. It might be best for everyone if she said nothing more. Just turned around and walked away. There was still a chance for her to save face before it was too late.

But, as if controlled by a force outside herself, the words slipped from her mouth. “He told me his home was Dun Ard.”

“Did he now?” Margaret’s smile broadened before she turned her head to call loudly over her shoulder, “Bella! Fetch Colin out here to the desk for me, please.”

He was here! Somewhere back beyond that doorway where even now she could hear running footsteps.

The hard, tight little ball that had once been her stomach suddenly sprouted butterflies. Big, hairy-assed acrobatic butterflies, from the feel of it. All wearing steel-toed boots and marching in lockstep formation across her intestines.

The seconds dragged by in a fashion Abby would have denied was possible before now. Just as she’d decided she could stand it no longer, that she’d make some wild
excuse and beat a hasty retreat, a small boy no more than eight or nine burst into the room. He ran straight to Margaret’s side, stopping to frown up at the woman.

“What do you want of me, Mum? My show’s on telly. I’m missing it,” he complained.

“Mind yer manners, lad.” With her hands on his shoulders, Margaret turned the boy around. “I’d like you to meet this nice lady who’s come for a visit. This is my son, Colin, and this is . . . begging yer pardon, miss. Did you give me yer name?”

“Abby,” she offered, almost forgetting herself in her surprise as the boy politely shook her hand. “Abigail Porter.”

This
was Colin MacAlister?

“Run along back to yer telly, Colin. Sorry to have taken you from yer show.”

With a shy smile, the child took off running and disappeared through the doorway.

“Now, Miss Porter, do you still think it was my Colin you met?”

Abby could only shake her head, waiting for her brain and her tongue to catch up with one another. This was altogether just plain wrong.

He’d lied to her.

He’d come home with her, climbed his naked butt into her bed, and lied to her.

“I apologize for troubling you, Mrs. MacAlister. I was so sure that . . . but, obviously, I was mistaken and I’m sorry for taking up your time.”

He’d lied. To her. God only knew who he really was.

Her face burned with embarrassment and anger. The pitying look on Margaret’s face only made it worse.

“Dinna you worry yerself over yer mistake, lassie. MacAlister’s a common enough name in these parts. Likely you misunderstood the gentleman as to the name of his home.”

Yeah? No, not likely at all. He had lied to her. Plain, bold-faced lied.

Abby’s breath caught as she made her way down the stone steps toward the spot where she’d left the car. The cold mist stung her face, helping her to concentrate on something other than the tears blurring her vision.

Now what? This had been her last hope for getting him out of her head. Now she’d never find him, and that could mean she’d be haunted by him for the rest of her life.

She climbed into the car, slammed the door shut, and leaned her head back against the leather headrest. “Liar!” She spat the condemnation into the empty car as if she confronted him.

Damn him! He’d had absolutely no reason to lie to her. It wasn’t like she was going to turn into some psycho stalker who’d come looking for him.

She stuck the key into the ignition, biting back a bitter laugh as she realized that was exactly what she’d turned into. She’d traveled over four thousand miles to Scotland and spent the whole of today trying to hunt the man down.

No wonder he’d lied to her. A great-looking guy like that probably had women stalking him on at least two continents. And clearly she had turned into one of those stalkers.

“Thanks a whole hell of a lot, Casey.”

No, that wasn’t fair. This wasn’t any more her friend’s fault than it was her own. It was
his
fault.

Margaret had said that MacAlister was a common name here, so his telling her his name was
Colin MacAlister
could well be the Scottish equivalent of introducing yourself as John Smith, for all she knew. He must have thought himself pretty clever pulling that one on her.

Didn’t that just serve her right for picking some stranger up in a bar? All things considered, she had absolutely no right to feel so horribly betrayed. After all, he was nothing more than that: a stranger.

And yet betrayed was exactly what she felt. Hurt, betrayed, lost, and gullible.

“And stupid,” she muttered. That’s really what she was. She certainly couldn’t leave off her growing list how utterly, completely stupid she felt.

With a deep sigh, Abby put the car in drive, pausing before she moved forward to wait for the dark blue car idling across from her to pull out of his space. When the driver simply stared at her but made no effort to move his vehicle, she pulled forward.

“Men,” she fumed aloud, casting an indignant look his direction. “That one’s likely so busy trying to figure out a fake name he could give some poor woman, he’s just sitting there like a lump on a log.” Well, too bad for him. He’d have to follow her now. Hopefully, wherever that woman was, she’d be smarter than Abby had been. For her own part, she sure as heck wouldn’t be fooled by that trick twice.

Abby nosed the car forward but slammed her foot on the brakes as one little detail slipped into her mind.

How could she have forgotten something so important?

Behind her, brakes squealed and gravel flew as the driver of the car she’d seen earlier slammed on his brakes to avoid rear-ending her.

Their eyes met briefly in the reflection of the rearview mirror and Abby mouthed a quick
sorry
before pulling forward again, her mood too lightened to allow her to dwell on feeling guilty for her little driving indiscretion.

Colin might have lied about his home, but he hadn’t given her a fake name and she had proof.

She’d spoken to his cousin on the telephone that day to arrange to have him picked up from her house. She’d seen Mairi MacKiernan Navarro, a woman she knew personally, drive up in front of her house and take him away.

He might not be from Dun Ard, or at least not
this
Dun Ard, but that didn’t mean she’d never be able to find him. All she had to do was call up her old professor and ask where her cousin was now.

Simple.

Of course, before she made that phone call, she’d have to find the nerve to do it, and that would be the tricky part.

L
iar!”

From somewhere in the endless black void, the accusation flew at Colin, pummeling his body and his soul with its inherent anger.

“He lied to me.”

Colin shivered as the plaintive whisper rolled over him. The pain in Abigail’s voice hit him harder than the accusation alone ever could have. Like some vicious beastie, it clawed its way into his heart, leaving an empty, gaping hole in its path.

He awoke from his sleep and sat up on the narrow cot in his quarters, one hand clasped to the wound on his chest to hold back the flow of blood.

Only there was no blood. Indeed there was not even any wound. It had all been a dream.

“By the Fates,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his sweat-slicked forehead. All hope of sleep forgotten, he slipped from his bed and crossed to a small window facing out over the Hall of the High Council’s magnificent courtyard.

He’d never experienced a dream so real. Not even the others he’d had regularly of the woman in whose bed he’d landed when he’d been pulled from his own time.

And dream of Abigail he did. Almost nightly now. Exactly as he just had. Dreams of her melting in his embrace, her body warm and inviting under his eager hands.

At least that had been the flow of the dreams before tonight. Before Abby had disappeared into the black void and this entirely different experience had overtaken him.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to wipe away the lingering emotion brought on by her plaintive cry.

Why? Why would he dream of her being so distraught with him? Granted, he’d not told her everything, but how could he possibly have told her more? At the time, he hadn’t understood what had happened himself. He still didn’t completely understand, if the truth be known.

But he’d never lied to her. He would never have willingly caused her such pain as he’d heard in her voice.

Grabbing up his plaid, he wrapped it around himself and stepped out into the indigo-hued night. The dream had been more than a dream, of that he had no doubt. It had felt—still felt!—too hauntingly real.

The time had come.

With purposeful steps, he made his way across the
courtyard and slipped through a small side door leading into the Great Hall itself.

He crossed the eerily empty enormous hall to take the great marble staircase two steps at a time. Without conscious thought, he willed himself to move silently, stealthily, as he’d been trained to do here in this place. Not until he’d wound his way through the labyrinth of corridors to stand in front of a massive carved wooden door did he stop to consider the man behind the door.

Like as not, Pol would be sleeping.

Too bad for him. Colin needed answers and he needed them now.

He fortified his defenses in preparation for the mental onslaught his ancestor’s shattered Soul always presented and then pounded his fist against the wood, surprised when the door swung open at his first touch.

“Come in, my son. Join us.”

Across the room, Pol sat facing him, with Dallyn, High General of the Faerie Realm, standing at his side.

“I must speak to you, your highness.” If there were answers to be had, these were the men who would have them.

Pol rose to his feet, the golden robe he wore flowing around him like liquid sunlight as he gestured to a chair next to him. “Grandfather,” he corrected on a sigh. “As my descendant, Colin, you’re entitled to address me as grandfather.”

“As long as no one else is around,” Dallyn murmured.

Colin chose to ignore them both in favor of dealing with the matter at hand.

“You asked that I come to you if the dreams changed.” Though how his Faerie ancestor had known he was
having dreams of any sort was another of those mysteries beyond his understanding. “They’ve changed.”

Pol nodded knowingly and sat back down, pausing to hold Colin’s gaze for a long moment before he spoke. “Describe the change in the dreams to me.”

Describe the change?

The new dream tore at his gut like something reaching deep inside him, stripping away little pieces of his very being. But disclosing the full extent of what he felt? Absolutely not. That would be worse than acknowledging the pain of training, or the fear before battle. A warrior did not admit such weakness.

“I feel Abby’s presence more . . .” He paused, struggling to find an honorable description. “More vividly. She is upset. Upset with me.” An adequate compromise of terms. “I believe I should go to her.”