The Pleasure Master (24 page)

“Ye'll return to yer land, but each year at the time of our joining ye'll remember, no matter where ye are or who ye're with. Ye'll see the place, ye'll see
me,
and remember always.” His hand skimmed the side of her face, and she felt the connection that needed no touch. “That will be my gift to ye, Kathy of Hair.”

Her emotions threatened to overflow as surely as the tears filling her eyes. Desire, regret, sadness. How could he manipulate her feelings with just his words? She had to take back control. “What would you say if I told you to do it right now? That I'd just lie back and you could join with me. We could get this challenge thing over with and you'd win.”

His eyes were shadowed. “That was yer exhusband's way. 'Tis not the Pleasure Master's way.”

She backed away from him, from the truth she hadn't realized was a truth. That
had
been her ex's attitude.
Do it my way, get it over with, and I win.

He held her gaze then turned and walked to the tub. “I'll empty this, then we'll walk to the village. I need talk wi' Mad Mary and see how Colin fares.”

He left her standing there, her thoughts in turmoil. She wanted him as she'd never wanted her husband, but she still refused to let him manipulate her.
She
wanted to choose the time and place.

Surprised, she realized her body, if not her mind, had accepted that there
would
be a time and place.

Refusing to debate the decision with her body, she checked the things in her backpack. Hairstylist to the end, she automatically took her supplies with her. Never knew when you'd have to perform an emergency cut and curl.

She fingered her butane curling iron, then glanced in Ian's direction. He wasn't paying any attention. Quickly she heated the curling iron and pulled out her mirror. In the first panic of traveling to this time, she hadn't worried about how she looked, but as her awareness of Ian grew, so did her desire to shed her prehistoric-hag-rising-from-primordial-swamp image.

Just a few unobtrusive curls here and there . . . Hmm. Were those roots starting to show? She peered more closely.

“What manner of thing do ye use on yer hair?”

Kathy jumped at Ian's question. She turned to find him standing behind her, staring suspiciously at the curling iron.

She sighed. There was something to be said for the run-like-hell reaction of most people to the things she'd brought with her. At least then she didn't have to give them a detailed explanation of how the gadgets worked. “This is a curling iron. It curls your hair to make it more attractive. See?” She demonstrated on her own hair.

He reached for the curling iron.

“Watch out, it's hot.” She turned it off to let it cool.

Picking it up, he examined it. “I would know how this works.”

She narrowed her gaze. “You will
not
take my curling iron apart.”

He grinned and handed the curling iron back to her. “I saw ye searching through yer hair. Were ye looking for wee beasties?”

She stared at him blankly until realization hit. “Bugs? You think I was looking for bugs? Ugh. Yeck.” Even the thought made her want to scratch.

She'd opened her mouth to fire another blast of denial, when she noticed his expression. He looked relaxed, open, teasing. Ian Ross was no longer the Pleasure Master. This was the same man who'd rolled with her on the beach yesterday. A man who was just enjoying himself. Instinctively, she knew Ian didn't have many happy moments, and she was fiercely glad she was responsible for a few of them.

“I was checking my roots.” Ordinarily, even torture wouldn't wring that admission from her, but she wanted to keep that look on Ian's face a little longer.

“I dinna understand.” He reached for one of the curls she'd just created, but stopped short of his goal.

Already, Kathy was rethinking the positive and negative aspects of Ian's no-touch vow. She'd
wanted
him to touch her hair. “Okay, here's the deal, Ross. This is
not
my natural color. But it's fine for this month. I've been thinking of going red in a few months, but I'm not sure. I don't know if I have a ‘red' attitude. What do you think?”

She'd hoped to shock him, but she was doomed to disappointment.

“In yer land women change the color of their hair like a worn shawl? What is yer real color?”

Rich brown? Warm brown? Earthy brown? “Mousy brown.” It had been a long time since she'd seen her natural color, but no matter how many exotic shades she put over it, she'd still felt mousy brown until . . . until she'd met Ian Ross.

“'Tis an admirable color.”

“It is?” She peered closely at him, looking for sarcasm. She found none.

“Aye. The color of a wee mouse is familiar, comfortable. Its hair is smooth,
soft.”
He lowered his voice to a husky murmur.

“So . . . you've petted a few mice in your time, huh?”
Touch my hair. Please touch my hair.

“On a cold winter's night when Malin sleeps and none need me, there isna much else to do.”

“Mice? In this cave?” She widened her eyes and glanced quickly around before she caught the teasing glint in Ian's gaze. “Well, no matter how familiar and comfortable a mouse is, I don't want to look like one.” Even though she tried to avoid the thought, she had to admit Ian made her feel good about who she was.
Everything
he'd done had made her feel good.

“Hmm. Henna. Maybe Mad Mary knows about henna. I might go red sooner than I expected.” She thought about red hair as she watched Ian finish emptying her bath water. And from red hair, her thoughts drifted to dark hair. Ian's hair, sliding across her bare flesh. Her fingers clutching the long strands as she urged him to put his mouth on her
breasts, her stomach, the back of her knees. . . . The back of her
knees?
Admit it, the thought of Ian Ross's mouth on any part of her body was an earthmoving concept.

“'Tis done. We'll walk to the village. The horse needs rest after yesterday's journey.” He slanted her a teasing grin. “Mayhap someone's bottom also needs a rest.”

Kathy started to glare at him, then opted for honesty. “You're right.
Nothing
could make me climb on that horse again.” She glanced at Peter. “Should we leave him here?”

“I'm coming and Hell's coming with me.” Peter stated his opinion as Malin jumped to his favorite resting place.

Ian shook his head. “I dinna have the courage to leave him here. We would be listening to his complaints all night when we returned.”

Kathy nodded. Some fights you couldn't win. Peter was one of them. She followed Ian from the cave, and Peter clattered along behind her.

They'd almost reached Mad Mary's cottage when Ian turned to her, his gaze thoughtful. “Ye've said Peter speaks only in movie lines. Mayhap 'Tis a certain line that will send ye back to New York.”

“The concept's great, Ian, but there're millions of movie lines.” It made sense, though. With his warped little sense of humor, Peter would love it. “How would I figure out the
right
line? And besides, what's the motive? Why am I even here?”

“It's the millennium; motives are incidental,” Peter offered.

Ian shrugged. “I dinna know the answer, but 'tis a thing we may speak of later.”

I don't want to talk to you. I want you wrapped naked around me on that fabulous bed while you tell me all the wicked things you'll do to me.
Kathy couldn't believe she'd ever thought she was frigid.

Colin opened Mad Mary's door to them and distracted her from more thoughts of Ian.

Ian frowned and Colin grinned. Kathy noted it wasn't a “gotcha” grin, but more of a silly, happy grin. She wondered what was going on.

“I would speak wi' Mary about a matter.” Ian's tone suggested that Colin didn't need to hang around and listen.

“Aye. She's sorting herbs by the hearth. I've helped her, and she's taught me much this morning.” His comment left what she'd taught him open for conjecture. “Ye may talk to Mary while I gather more herbs from the garden.”

“I'll go with you, Colin.” Kathy hurried after him as he strode toward the small garden. “So how're things going?”

He stopped to lean over a plant and peer at its leaves. “Ye gave good advice. Mary takes joy in speaking of her plants.” He plucked a few leaves, then straightened to look at her. “And I find I have a great interest in hearing her speak.”

Something in his gaze made her ask, “Because of the challenge?”

His expression warmed. “Because of
Mary.”

“Oh.” This could be unexpected luck for Ian. “Have you played your bagpipes for her?”

“I told ye before I would only play for one I loved.”

“And is there a chance you
might
play for Mary?”

His smile was uncertain. “I might, lass. I might.”

Leaving her with that possibility to chew on, he strode back toward the cottage. Kathy followed him inside.

Ian was cramming some things into the pouch at his waist as Mary watched with an amused expression. Ian did
not
look amused. “Mary says ye've learned much about herbs. Have ye learned other things as well, Colin?”

Colin looked noncommittal. “I havena spent enough time wi' Mary to know all that I might.”

“Hmmph.” Ian's comment needed no translation. “If ye have no reason to stay, Kathy, I would start home.”

“You go on, Ian. I want to ask Mary a quick question, then I'll catch up.”

Ian nodded, then left the cottage and walked slowly down the path. Kathy smiled as she watched Peter toddling along behind him like a slightly weird shadow. Ian turned onto the path they'd come on, the one that skirted the village. Wise move. Peter would look strange even on a New York sidewalk, and that was saying a lot.

She turned back to Mary. “I have a quick question. Do you have anything that colors hair?”

Mary frowned. “I have something that would turn yer hair red, but it wouldna look as lovely as yer own hair.”

“My
own
hair is brown.”

Mary's eyes shone with excitement. “'Tis amazing. What wondrous plant would give ye such a color?”

Kathy glanced down the path. Ian was still walking slowly. She had to hurry. “Uh, it's sixty milliliters of forty volume, twenty-five milliliters of eleven P, and five milliliters of blonding cream. Look, I've gotta run. I'll get back to you about the color.”

She rushed from the cottage, leaving Mary with a befuddled look on her face.

Halfway along the path that Ian still walked, Kathy saw the child. He stood next to a large rock and was looking down at his badly scraped knee. The part of her that couldn't ignore a hurt child carried her to his side. “What happened, sweetheart?”

He looked up at her, and she could see he was fighting tears. “I fell off the rock. 'Tis a wee scrape.” He offered his explanation with a trembling lip.

She knew he wouldn't want any soft sounds of sympathy. Soft wasn't an option in this time.
Except Ian's glance when he's in his Pleasure Master mode.

Putting her backpack on the ground, she fumbled around for something that would distract him from his injury. She pulled out a small plastic police car. Quickly, she handed it to the child. Any minute Ian would turn around, and she'd have to listen to his lecture about not showing anyone her toys. But what could one small police car do? She doubted it would change the course of history.

Intrigued, the boy crouched down and rolled the
car along the ground. The wail of a piercing siren emerged from the car while its red and blue lights flashed brightly.

Damn. She hadn't known it would do that. Her worst fears were confirmed as she saw Ian striding toward her. He was frantically gesturing behind her. Things couldn't get any worse.

She glanced behind her. Yes, they could.

The priest was charging across the field toward her, his robes flapping in the breeze like giant bat wings. Behind him, many of the villagers, including Neil, hurried to see what was happening.

Father Gregory's appearance was a little too convenient; he must have been watching every move Ian and she made.

“Didna I tell ye the woman was a witch? She is trying to steal the soul of the child wi' her devil's toy.”

Kathy winced. In a hog-calling contest, he'd win hands down for pure volume. Beside her, the boy clutched the police car to him.

Ian was running now, but the priest reached her first.

She gaped at him as he jerked the car from the child's hands, threw it to the ground, and stomped on it. The crack of broken plastic was loud in the sudden silence.

“There, I've destroyed the demon's plaything.” The priest wore a triumphant expression.

Beside her, she heard the soft sobs the boy tried to muffle, and suddenly she was mad. Mad at everyone and everything that had to do with this time.

She narrowed her gaze and advanced on the sputtering priest. “You are such a jerk. When you die and knock at the pearly gates, God's going to kick your butt into Hell.”

The priest huffed and puffed. “Ye canna speak so to a servant of God.”

“You're no servant of God. Look at you. You're a disgrace to the priesthood.”

“Dinna say more, lass.” Ian's quiet advice cut through her fury.

Ian held his breath. If the priest chose to condemn Kathy, would the people support him? He hoped he could get Kathy safely away without finding out.

Ian looked down in time to see Peter's lights flashing.
No.
Not now.

“Do you have any control over how creepy you allow yourself to get?”

“We must destroy the woman and this . . . demon.” Father Gregory glared at Peter as he reached out to grab Kathy's arm.