Highland Pull (Highland Destiny 2) (5 page)

Gabhran walked for miles along the banks of the Mississippi and the streets of the Vieux Carré each night, stopping for drinks and dinner as his mood suited. Tonight as he walked, he thought about Alysone. Gabhran was disappointed with the information she’d provided so far, but he had not actually expected more. He had always thought the uncertainty of his own life was nearly unbearable, but ‘twas nothing compared to what she had suffered. At least he’d had papers to tell him who he was. She had wakened completely lost in her new time.

Alysone thought some of his memories felt familiar to her, but she had not yet had any genuine memories of her own past. Unless you counted the dreams. Today she told him of a particularly vivid dream that she’d had the previous night, one that sounded to him more like a memory or even a vision. It had intrigued him, and it scared her. He would ask her more questions on the morrow.

Idly he wondered if Marie could help Alysone, maybe read for her, or see into her as she had with Gabhran. Perhaps she could fashion Alysone a gris-gris bag for protection, too. His hand reached for the bag nestled on the chain around his neck, and froze. He had removed the chain when he’d showered and forgotten to replace it when he’d dressed.

Though he’d been skeptical at first, he was grateful for the bag now. He’d looked around his few possessions when he’d returned from the Voodoo Queen’s shop, thinking about what one personal item he could add to the bag, and how he would keep it next to his skin. Then he’d had an idea that pleased him greatly.

In this current version of his life, he’d been contacted by an attorney who had informed Gabhran of a hidden vault in his house in Edinburgh. Upon entering the secret room, he’d discovered many relics and a journal. The journal was undated and appeared ancient, and it contained incomplete notes about the items in the vault. There he had read about the large amber pendent called the Talisman of Cycles. When Worthington had started sniffing around and trying to recruit him, Gabhran had decided to wear the artifact around his neck to keep it safe.

Gabhran had never grown accustomed to the feelings that the pendant evoked, it felt cold and dark against his chest. Marie suggested he could wear his gris-gris bag around his neck, so after careful consideration, he’d slipped the pendant into the bag and tied it closed. Then he slipped the chain around his neck, taking care of two problems at once. The gris-gris bag shielded his flesh from the sensations evoked by the pendant. Now that he was aware of its absence, it felt strange not to have the little bag next to his chest. He’d call it an early evening and make sure he stayed out of trouble.

As he walked and thought, his feet took him as they did most nights, to Preservation Hall, the place he’d listened to jazz his first night in town. He took up his customary spot against the wall and let the music wash over him.

He noticed Miranda as soon as he entered; his gaze drawn to her like a moth to the flame. She was sitting on the floor, a few rows in front of where he stood, swaying gently to the music. She was dressed in a flowered summer dress with a halter-top, her golden hair pulled back into a knot on the nape of her neck, exposing a long expanse of her bare back. He knew how she got that tan. He forced his gaze away from her, tried to put her out of his mind and focus on the music.

Melancholy was in the air tonight, the musicians were playing a particularly bluesy set of songs, about loves lost, crying rivers, and no second chances. His gaze drifted back to Miranda as the last song came to an agonizingly depressing end on the wailing note of a lone trumpet. He sucked in a breath, as he watched a single tear trace down her cheek.

As the band got up to take a much-deserved break, people shifted about the room, and Miranda came to her feet, looking around. Their gazes locked over the heads of the audience, and she started to turn away.
Miranda
.

As if he’d spoken aloud, she swiftly turned back to look at him.
Had she heard that somehow?
He smiled at her and hoped his expression was reassuring. Her shoulders rose, then fell as she took a deep breath then meandered her way around the room until she was standing next to him, but facing away, toward the stage area.

“Hello, lass, nice to see you again.” He tried for casual.

She flushed. “Nice to see me dressed, you mean,” she snapped.

He leaned over and got very close to her ear, so only she would hear
. “Och, lass, here I was trying to be polite and ‘twould appear I royally fucked that up.” He straightened and then laughed long and loud, causing several heads to turn their way.

Randi’s lips twitched as she looked up at him, making sure of the intent of his words, before relaxing and giving a genuine smile. “I’m sorry, that was bitchy. I really am sorry about the other day
. I’ve never been more embarrassed in my life! I just can’t apologize enough.”

“No you canna, because I doona need to hear any apology. ‘Tis truly not necessary, but you could have a drink with me after the next set. I’ll even let you keep your clothes on,” he teased.

Randi laughed, a musical, enchanting sound that made his heart rate speed up and the dark within him raise its head and sniff the air. Gabhran gave her a slow smile. Just then, the band took the stage and began their next set, determined to lift the blues from the air.

It was a glorious session, all Cole Porter and Irving Berlin songs, and he just knew where it would end, it was inevitable. Sure enough as they approached the end of the set, a lively version of “Blue Skies,” gave way to “I’ve Got You Under My Skin”. He
couldna say why he had been so sure that song would be last, except there was a feeling of fate about standing here next to Miranda. She was definitely under his skin.

They’d stood side-by-side throughout the final session, occasionally they would brush shoulders, unintentionally touching as each moved to the music. Without stopping to consider the consequences, Gabhran slipped an arm around Miranda’s waist
, took her hand in his, and danced with her in a tight little circle.

Dancing was not something he had done in the last five years, he was sure of it. He wondered briefly, where the urge had come from, but then he was holding Miranda and all such concerns melted away. In fact, many things melted away when he held her in his arms.
Things like his honor, his sanity, the walls that held back his darkness.

There wasn’t much room and he was careful not to hold her too close
. He didna want to scare her off; he needed her. They started a trend, and soon other couples lining the walls were also dancing in the small space, giving Gabhran an excuse to hold Miranda a little closer. When the band finished, the crowd roared, and Gabhran casually draped his arm around Miranda’s shoulders.

“Thank you, lass, for indulging me, now let me buy you that drink. Unless you
havna had dinner yet?” he asked as he guided her through the crowd to the door and into the street. Since she’d already eaten, they settled for having a drink. Although this was her hometown, he led the way to a small local’s bar near their home that had a good variety of top shelf liquors.

****

Randi liked the feel of Gav’s hand against the small of her back, acting as a rudder and guiding her through the crowd as they walked down the street together. Women turned to gape at him. For that matter so did the men. He was a vision of masculinity in tight, faded jeans and a black polo shirt that hugged his ripped chest muscles. His black hair was lose, and hung an inch or two below his shoulders, and his blue-gray eyes sparked with an unrepressed excitement. He made her feel petite, dainty even. As a member of the police force, that was an unfamiliar and not very comfortable feeling.

He hadn’t really needed to steer her. People gave him wide berth, the crowd parting as he approached, making room for him, and turning to admire after he passed. More than once she’d spotted people taking pictures of him, as though he were someone famous.
It’s hot as hell knowing I’m walking with a sex god.

Twice they had to stop to wait for passing cars, before they could cross the street. The first time, he let his hand drop from her waist, and she shivered with the sudden loss of the searing heat he radiated. The second time was even more disturbing. He had taken his hand from her waist, and slowly traced his fingers up her bare spine, until his hand settled on the nape of her neck. She glanced up, only to discover he was looking down at her, his expression hungry. Then he’d laughed, kissed the top of her head lightly, and returned his hand to her waist. That had made her shiver, too. He led her across the street and into Finnegan’s Pub.

Even though the pub was near her apartment, it was not one she’d visited before. Such was life living in the French Quarter, so many bars, so little time. Not that she drank often, but she could certainly hold her liquor well when she did. As a young female cop, she’d had to prove herself many times, and being able to toss back shots with the guys was a prerequisite.

The building was a deep narrow strip in the center of the block, with nothing flashy to lure in the tourist trade. Inside, the bar itself was a gleaming plank of oak, with brass foot rails, and a giant mirror behind the shelves of bottles. There were padded leather stools at the bar and several small tables filled the rest of the space. Although there were a few empty tables, Gabhran led her straight to the bar. Randi noticed several people raise their hands or a glass to the mountain of a man walking by her side.
He is known here.

“What would you like, lass?” he asked once they had pulled up two stools and sat.

“What do you drink, besides the Turbodog Ale we had the other day?”

“
Och, ‘tis for hot afternoons. For evenings I prefer a good single malt whisky, preferably Macallan. Why not give it a try?” he suggested. He held up two fingers to the bartender, who clearly already knew what Gabhran drank.

The bartender brought two glasses and placed a bottle of fifty-year-old
Macallan on the counter. “Evenin’, Gav. Thought ye should know your shipment came in, I have your bottles ready to go. You ne’er brought a lady in here a’fer. Will ye be havin’ dinner then tonight?” he asked in a thick Irish brogue.

“
Och, Finn, you might want to shut yer bloody feckin’ mouth in front of the gendarme,” Gabhran shot back, his own brogue thickening and taking on the lilt of the Irish. Then he tossed his head back and roared with laughter, a warm rich sound, that rebounded off the brick walls. Just as she’d noticed at the club, all conversations in the pub halted, as the sound of his laughter washed over everyone. Randi smiled, unable to resist joining in on his private amusement. Then she realized every other person in the pub was smiling too. After a minute, normal conversations resumed, but a sense of joy lingered in the air.
Wow
.

“Miranda, this large-mouthed bass pretending to be a bartender is Seamus Finnegan
. Finn, meet my neighbor, Miranda Close, police detective.”

“Randi,” she automatically corrected as she put her hand out to shake.

After the pleasantries, Finn opened the bottle and poured a glass for each of them. Gabhran invited Finn to join them and the three touched glasses, then both men took a reverent sip while Randi shot hers back, the way she’d seen her fellow cops toss back liquor. The whisky warmed her from the inside out, and she looked up to find both men staring at her with identical expressions of horror on their faces.

“Christ woman! You’ll be lucky if Gav does not kill you. I should shoot you
meself. Do you know how much that bottle cost?” asked the bartender. His voice was a harsh whisper.  

“Easy, Finn, she meant no harm.” Shaking his head and smiling, Gabhran turned to her
. “Lass, Macallan whisky is one to be savored. I will show you how to enjoy it. Do you want to sit here at the bar, or is a table more to your liking?”

They moved to a table
, taking their bottle with them. Gabhran poured them each a second glass, and taught her how to hold the drink in her mouth, to notice the subtle nuances as she sipped the fine whisky.

Gabhran was nearly a foot taller and one hundred pounds heavier than Miranda, and he kept the drinks coming. She matched him through four
, well used to a night out drinking with the guys, having to keep up with a bunch of competitive men. Then she lost count because he topped her glass off, rather than actually letting it empty.

“I think I need to be taking you home now, lass. Doona
fash yourself, I will make sure you get home safely. Are you ready to go? Wait here. I will return in a moment.”

While Gabhran returned the remains of the bottle to Finn and retrieved the bag with his bottles for home, Randi thought about his promise to get her home safely. She had enjoyed their evening very much. It had been a gentle seduction, the shared music, the laughter, and his stories. He had told her stories of Scotland and asked questions about Louisiana. He never asked her to share deeply personal information, he kept it all light, and he focused all of his attention on her.

He’d done everything he could have to put her at ease. It should have worked. It very nearly had. When they’d first met, she had sensed a duality, and tonight that feeling was stronger than ever. Randi knew she should never have had so much to drink around this man; not being in control around Gabhran was dangerous.