The Pleasure Master (4 page)

Curiosity.
Ian had more than the normal man, and his father had often warned him it would bring him grief. But Gordon Mackay or not, he must know more about Kathy of Hair.

It was curiosity that held him now, helping a woman whose strangeness should have sent him fleeing as his brothers had fled.

She shrugged. “Oh, that was mousse. It makes hair more manageable.”

He smiled. “Men also, 'twould seem.”

Was the woman mad? Most would think so, but Ian Ross didn't think like most. She had told the truth about being from another place. Her clothes, her speech, and the strange things she carried with her were like nothing he'd ever seen.

Beyond that, she was clear-eyed and sharp-tongued. Her tongue reminded him much of Mad Mary, the clan healer, who told any who vexed her that her red hens passed on the secrets of healing along with the eggs they laid each day. He knew some who believed the tale.

Kathy of Hair. 'Twas a strange name. Who was she, and where had she come from? She had a boldness about her that fascinated him, and no woman had fascinated him in a very long time.

“Pleasure Master? What's a pleasure master?”
He'd started walking again and could hear her struggling to keep up with him.

He slowed his pace, not only because of the woman, but because he remembered Malin was following. Why
had
Malin followed him today? The cat was old and had not wandered far from home for many years. But Malin
knew
things, had always known when Ian needed him. Why today?

“Yer speech is different from any I've heard. Where is this New York?”

“New York is a state of mind, and it's here somewhere if I can only find it. Now what's a pleasure master?”

Her answer made no sense, and her questions were like buzzing insects you could swat away but never discourage. Mayhap it would be safer if she fell behind, then faded into the mist from whence she'd appeared.

Ye lie, Ian Ross.
He taught others so much, gave so much of himself and enjoyed the giving, but there was a sameness to his feelings, a joy only of the senses and mayhap satisfaction in having helped someone. But
this
woman. This woman was different. For the few moments he'd been close to her,
touched
her, he'd felt a pull, a connection that went beyond the body's heated need. The sensation puzzled him,
excited
him.

He heard her labored breathing as she drew level with him, still holding her strange toy. “Where're we going? What place is this? And I want to know what a pleasure master is.” She punched him on the arm to emphasize her demand.

Ignoring his better judgment, he slowed further, then glanced at her. Her face was flushed from trying to keep up with him, and her blond hair lay damp and curling from the mist against her cheeks. She glared up at him with eyes as wide and blue as the firth on a sunny day. But beneath her anger, he sensed the fear, the confusion, the
truth
of what she'd told him.

“Even though 'tis yet summer, 'tis no day to be wandering the hills. Ye'll come to my dwelling where ye can dry off. Then mayhap we can find a way to return ye to yer land.”
And I can find a way to make sense of how ye make me feel.
“Ye can also tell me about the things ye carry wi' ye. What I've seen so far is passing strange.”

“Summer? This is summer? You've gotta be kidding.” She shivered. “Okay, question one answered. Now, where
are
we? And don't run that firth stuff past me again.” She cast him a considering look. “Do you have a lisp? Maybe you meant
first
not
firth.
That would explain why nine-one-one couldn't find us.”

“I dinna know what ye blather about, woman. Ye're in Scotland, as ye must well know.”

His budding frustration disappeared as he watched her grow pale, then clasp her lower lip between small white teeth in an attempt to still its quiver. She was a brave lass, and he admired bravery. “'Tis not such a bad place to be. Once ye're warm and dry, ye can tell me what I need know in order to return ye to yer land.” His attempt to console her came out gruffer than he'd intended, but
then he'd had no need to console a woman for many a year. Women came to him for other things.

“That might be a little hard. I don't have any ruby slippers to click.” She seemed to have gained control over her quivering lip and was now blinking quickly to keep back the tears. But he could see the tell-tale sheen.

Luckily, they'd reached his home. “Welcome to my dwelling, Kathy of Hair.”

“Where? Where?” She swung in a circle.

“Here.” He pulled aside the brush that hid the entrance.

“You live in a
cave?
”

“Aye. None have come here—”

“Of course they have. I'm here.”

“—and lived.” He should not have said that, but he was frustrated with his uncertain response to this woman when he'd never known uncertainty with
any
woman.

“Oh.” Silence. Then a mad scrambling. “Feet don't fail me now.”

Exhaling wearily, he turned and caught her arm before she'd gone three strides. “Ye're safe wi' me, lass. 'Tis no secret where I live. I was but teasing ye.”

“Sure. I knew that.” He could see her pulling her composure around her. “But why would anyone live in a cave? Shouldn't you be living in a castle with a drawbridge and a moat full of piranhas, stuff like that?”

He sensed her hesitancy as she followed him down the dark tunnel leading to his living area.

“Not that I believe . . . Hmm. Hypothermia. I wonder if I have . . .”

“A castle is cold and drafty, exposed. This place suits me well. 'Tis large, ne'er grows too cold, and stays dry. 'Tis easy to defend and also . . . private. I know of none other like it.” His curiosity had swelled to monstrous proportions. He must know the meanings of the words she used. He must know—

“But . . . I thought wolves and things like that lived in caves.” She'd drawn closer to him, probably for protection.

He felt the brush of her body against his back, and it was as though no clothes separated them. He drew his breath in at the thought of her lying naked on his furs. Waiting. It wasn't a comfortable thought. He'd grown used to being the one creating images for others.

Glancing over his shoulder, he grinned at her in the darkness, knowing his grin had little to do with humor. “Aye. Wolves live in caves.”
And not all run on four legs.

The widening of her eyes told him she'd understood his message.

He stepped aside so she could enter his living area, visible in the dim light from a hole that opened to the surface. Then he quietly lit candles and added fuel to the small hearth, bathing the room in a warm glow.

“I . . . didn't expect this.” She ran her hand over one of the heavy tapestries lining the walls.

At least his home had diverted her for a moment
from worrying about her plight. “Ye expected a wee hovel wi' a dirt floor and mayhap a few wild dogs fighting for scraps from my table?” He smiled.

“Of course not.” She sighed. “Yes. That or some dreary castle crouched at the edge of the Cliff of Doom.” She frowned. “Isn't that the name of a video game or something?” She swayed slightly.

“Sit by the fire.” He set her things down, then watched as she carefully placed the strange toy she carried on the rug close to the hearth.

He smiled as she scanned the room. “Ye'll find no chairs in this room, but the cushions are verra comfortable.”

Sinking onto the pile of pillows next to her toy, she glanced at his rugs. “These are Oriental. What would Oriental rugs be doing in the wilds of Scotland in . . . 1542?” She flinched as she said the date.

“My great grandfather traveled to many places and brought the best of what he saw home wi' him.”
The power of the Pleasure Master.

As she skimmed her fingers across the nearest rug, her gaze turned pensive. “Not to change the subject, but how can I be in the year 1542 if my cell phone still works?” Frantically, she dug through her purse for the phone, her one connection to her real life, her sanity.

No 911 this time. Who to call? Mom and Dad were on their cruise. Besides she'd never worry them with this . . . whatever. Coco would ask too many in-depth questions she couldn't answer. Finally, she punched in the numbers for Pampered
Life, her work, her salvation. Of course, it was Christmas Eve, so Dawn had probably left by now.

When Dawn finally answered, Kathy almost sobbed with relief. “Dawn, you've got to help me. I'm in 1542. Allegedly.” She frowned at Ian Ross.

“Kathy? Fifteen Forty-Two? Is this some hot new club you didn't tell me about?”

Kathy shifted her frown to the phone. “Club? I'm talking about the past, the
year
1542. I'm between two damn firths.”
Remain calm. Do not shout at co-worker. Shouting solves nothing.

“Got it. You're hung over. Bet there's a man, too. I knew it had to be something like that when you didn't show up for work.”

“I'm
not
hung over.” Kathy shouted. “Further-more . . . Work? I don't work on Christmas.”

“You do on December 26. Clara Stone was really ticked when you weren't here to do her color. Better show up tomorrow.”

“Dawn, there's this guy, Ian Ross. He lives in a cave—”

Giggles.

“Fine. The least you can do is make sure someone does Mrs. Tierney's hair.” Confusion clouded her thinking. December 26? How had she lost two days?

“Hey, anything for a friend.” Dawn's voice turned uncertain. “You're okay, aren't you?”

Okay as compared to what? Okay as in she wasn't being stalked by a saber-toothed tiger? Kathy glanced at Ian. Maybe not. Anyway, it wouldn't do any good to worry Dawn about her mental
health, and Dawn would definitely think Kathy was crazy if she told the truth. “I'm fine, Dawn.”

“Look, I gotta run. Got a customer waiting. Let me know if you need something else.”

Kathy sighed. “Sure.”

“See you tomorrow.”

“Right. Tomorrow.” With a groan of despair, she shut off the power. When she could think again without fighting the urge to break into hysterical tears, she'd figure out whom to call for help.

She turned her attention back to Ian Ross. “Okay, what's
really
happening here?”

“Nothing, but if ye wish something to happen I—”

She didn't like the sudden gleam in his eyes. “Forget it. What I mean is, why am I here with you? Maybe I'm not here. Maybe you're just a brain-blip caused by inhaling too many hair chemical fumes.”

“Hair chemicals?”

“Maybe not. No one else complained of taking unbooked flights to Scotland after doing Mrs. Henley's gray roots. Anyway, I need proof that this is 1542. New Yorkers don't buy the Brooklyn Bridge. We're street smart. You don't pull the wool over our eyes.” Amazing how a few clichés made her feel better. This had to be some clever scam, and she wasn't going to fall for it.
What about his clothes, the land, his speech?
No, she wouldn't believe it. This was some kind of gigantic hoax.
But who'd want to bother?

He frowned, and she watched the lines in his forehead deepen, his lips tighten. A dangerous
man, a man who'd lived life and not always found it gentle. She suppressed a shiver.

“I dinna know this Brooklyn Bridge. And what purpose would pulling wool over yer eyes serve?” In two strides, he reached the spot where she'd collapsed, then sat down facing her. For the first time, she noticed the sword he carefully set beside him. She peered more carefully. Was that a knife hilt sticking out from his sock? Sure, New Yorkers had to protect themselves, but this guy was into overkill.

She was alone in a cave with a very strange man who carried a sword and stuck knives in his socks. He relaxed against one of the cushions, then smiled. A man who, in her world, would make her heart pound and her mouth grow dry.

But she was in
his
world, and she was too confused, too scared to react to any man.
So what do you call what happened when you first met him?
She chose to ignore that thought.

He settled himself deeper into the cushions, then ran his gaze from the top of her head to the tips of her tingling toes. Her heart pounded and her mouth grew dry.

Desperately, she searched for a subject that would put him on the defensive, give her time to pull her scattered wits into some semblance of order. “About this pleasure master stuff? What's a pleasure master?” Darn. She couldn't stop the stupid flip-flopping of her stomach.

Food. When was the last time she'd eaten? “Maybe I passed out from hunger. Maybe you're
just my brain's attempt to remind me I haven't had a good prime rib for a while.” That hadn't come out exactly as she'd intended. “What I mean is, if we're talking pleasure, I'd like—”

“There are pleasures greater than food, lass.” His voice was a husky murmur.

“Uh-huh.” She knew better than to ask what.

He didn't answer. Instead, he pulled off his belt, then the wool plaid he wore, until he was left with only a shirt that barely reached the top of his muscular thighs. Once again relaxing back against the multicolored pile of pillows, he bent one leg at the knee, then smiled at her. “The fire makes it verra warm. Dinna ye feel the heat, lass?”

She knew if she allowed her gaze to follow the path of his inner thigh to where his shirt ended she'd see . . . No, she wouldn't go there even if the rest of her body was yammering for a peek. She was above cheap thrills.

His skin glowed golden in the fire's light. So
much
bare male skin made her feel prickly and . . . Sweat formed between her breasts, then trickled across her stomach, but she clutched her coat more tightly around her. “No. Absolutely not. All comfy cozy here.”