The Pleasure Master (3 page)

Then
what?
Amnesia? Could she have lost her memory, wandered to a different place?

Stop shaking. You're New York tough. New Yorkers are survivors.
This time when she pushed
at him, he let her go. Scrambling away from the man on the ground, she reached her purse and yanked out her cell phone.

Breathlessly, she pushed 911, then waited until a male voice answered.

“Please, I need help.” Her teeth chattered. With cold or fear? Probably both. “My name is Kathy Bartlett and I—”

The voice interrupted.

“No, I'm not hurt. I don't know about the imminent danger part. I'm—”

Interruption.

“Where am I? Somewhere in
Braveheart
, I think.”

The voice wasn't amused.

“Okay, okay, I'm . . .” She turned to the man, who still sat leaning against the rock. “Where am I?”

He wasn't smiling. A frown creased his forehead as he stared at her phone. “Ye're betwixt Cromarty and Dornoch Firths.”

“
Firth?
What the heck is a firth? Firth doesn't sound like a New York name.” He didn't sound like a New York man. She fought to control the nauseous fear trembling in the pit of her stomach and faithfully repeated what he'd said.

“What do you mean there're no streets with those names? Sure there are. I bet you could find dozens of Cromarty and Dornoch streets. I bet there're two named after Dominic Cromarty and Christine Dornoch.”

The voice had no sense of humor.

“Fine, so I'm not hurt, so I'm not in
imminent
danger, but . . . Why do I have to call my local authorities?” She glared at the man on the ground, then glared at her cell phone.

“Emergencies? You think this isn't an
emergency?
You'd better . . .” Damn! He'd hung up. Carefully, she returned the phone to her purse, afraid she'd drop it from her shaking fingers.
Save the power until you figure out the right person to call.

She was in deep doo-doo, but she'd calmly and logically reason things out. Hah! She was so scared that any minute the fright fairy would swoop down and crown her Queen of Queasy Stomachs.

She turned back to the man, then gasped when she found he now stood beside her. Sitting, he'd looked formidable. Standing, he was downright intimidating. Towering above her with shoulders broad enough to block out the sun, if there'd been a sun, and dressed in clothing that looked way too authentic for Kathy's taste, he practically oozed raw primitive power.

She wanted to step back. Step back, turn, and run for her life. But where? And she didn't doubt he'd catch her before she'd taken five steps. Clenching her shaking hands into fists, she glared at him. “Don't touch me or I'll—”

“Or ye'll what, lass?” He smiled. “Cover my manhood wi' a potion that will deny the pleasure of a woman's body to me forever?” He walked over
and picked up her can of mousse. Handling it carefully, he returned it to her.

Without comment, she put it in her purse.

“Be ye a witch?” He didn't smile when he asked.

An incredible
explanation
was jumping up and down just outside the door to her thoughts, shouting to get her attention. She couldn't make it go away, but she didn't have to answer the door.

Just stick with the facts.
Two hulking giants run screaming from mousse attack. General landscape in no way resembles Times Square on Christmas Eve. Conclusion. Primitive area inhabited by big scary primitive men. Hmm.

Think. If she was in a primitive area, then she'd better squash this witch thing. Being burned at the stake was
not
on her list of fun things to do on a Saturday night. No, she definitely couldn't be a witch. “I'm . . . I'm a princess. That's right, I'm a princess, and I'm lost.”

“A princess?” He looked puzzled.

She relaxed slightly. He didn't seem so threatening when he was puzzled. “Yes. I'm . . . the hair princess.”

“Hare?” A smile once again tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Ye rule a kingdom of rabbits?”

If she hadn't been so confused, so
terrified,
she might have laughed, but who could laugh with her teeth chattering and her mind racing for an explanation. Any explanation. “No, hair.” She reached up and fingered a strand of his incredible hair, then jerked her hand back at the instant connection between them. “I'm Kathy, the Princess of Hair.” A
coma? Did people hallucinate when they were in a coma? “And I need to get back to New York.”

He frowned. “I've ne'er heard of this New York.”

Oh, God, please. “The United States?”

He shook his head, and her gaze involuntarily followed the way his hair shifted like heavy silk across his shoulders. “I dinna know these places. Who is the king of yer land?”

The
explanation,
so fantastic, so impossible, was now pounding on the door, tapping at the windows. “Uh . . . Clairol. My father, King Clairol, rules our kingdom.”

He exhaled sharply, and his breath misted against her cheek—warm, compelling. “Yer father would do well to keep his daughter safe beside him. 'Tis a dangerous land ye've come to.”

New York or wherever, men's attitudes didn't change. She took a mini-break from mental handwringing to strike a blow for women everywhere. “Women can take care of themselves.
I
can take care of myself.” Right.

His gaze turned thoughtful, assessing. “Aye. I've seen proof of that. Henry would find ye amusing.”

“Henry?” She glanced around her again. Hills, grass, a small grove of trees, the smell of the sea. No, she'd never been here before.

“Surely even in yer kingdom ye've heard of King Henry.”

The
explanation
gave up on polite knocking and tapping. With a roar of frustration, it kicked down her door, then stood with hands on hips, confronting her with its horrific magnitude, its
realness.
“What . . . year is it?” Strange, but her lips felt frozen, unwilling to form the question.

“The year of our Lord, fifteen hundred forty-two.” His answer seemed distracted, his gaze suddenly fixed on something behind her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, as if that would keep her mind, her soul, from shattering into a million shards of panic.
No!
How? Why? No, she wouldn't accept his words. Time travel was impossible.

Please let her open her eyes and find herself back on the side of I-95, smelling the wonderful smells of home—exhaust fumes and pollution. She'd never, never, never complain again about over-booking, clients who wanted green hair like the Grinch, or sexy cars that broke down.

She opened her eyes. Nothing had changed. Feeling suddenly disconnected from the strangeness around her—probably a defense mechanism of her mind—she turned to see what her companion found so interesting.

A large cat sat watching them. Mostly white, it had red on its head and tail. Auburn. Denise Lane, third Thursday of every month. Kathy had told her all women deserved to be redheads at least once in their lives.

The man moved up beside her, and they watched silently as the cat stood, then hobbled toward them.

“That cat only has three legs.” She was switching into automatic poor-kitty mode when the man put his hand on her arm. She drew in her breath at the contact.

“'Tis Malin. Ye must pretend ye dinna notice.
He willna accept yer pity.” He bent down and ran his hand the length of the cat's back. The cat sat down regally at the man's side, disdaining to glance her way.

“Malin?”

“Aye. The name means wee strong warrior. 'Tis a fitting name.”

Kathy lifted her gaze to the man's face. There was dark intensity in his stare and an unnamed emotion that seemed to ripple between them, pulling her into its undertow even as she fought it.

Nope, she wouldn't get sidetracked because she had really important issues to think about, like . . .
Even though I really, really don't believe in time travel, well, if I have time traveled—and, of course, I don't believe I have—please, someone send me home.

“Run this King Henry and 1542 stuff past me again. Slowly.” She wet her lips nervously as he watched her with unwavering gray eyes. “Oh, and have you spoken with your shrink lately, maybe missed your medication?”

If only it were that simple. But what about the two kilted brothers she'd terrified with a can of mousse? What about their Scottish burr, and what about the primitive untouched land around her?
What about if you have a screaming fit of hysterics?

It was as though she hadn't spoken. Without comment, he grabbed her hand, scooped up her bag of toys, purse, and backpack, then started dragging her away.

Bag of toys, purse, backpack.
Something important. Remember. “Whoa. You can't just pull me along behind you. That's . . . kidnapping, a criminal offense. Besides, I don't go off with strange men.” She jerked ineffectually at his grasp.

Pausing, he looked back at her. “If ye're truly lost, then all men would be strange to ye.”

True. “Yeah, but some men are stranger than others.”

He finally seemed to relax. The beginning of a smile crinkled the corners of his eyes and turned up the corners of that incredible mouth. “Ye dinna understand, lass. Ye have no choice in the matter. Ye're coming wi' me.” He shrugged, and despite the plaid thrown across his shoulders, she could see the ripple of muscles. “Besides, where else would ye go?”

Stark raving mad?
No, she thought she'd already taken that trip.

He must have taken her silence for assent, because he resumed dragging her away.

“Wait. You forgot Malin. Aren't you going to carry him?” She glanced at the cat, who stared malevolently back at her. Definitely
not
carry-on luggage.

“Malin is a warrior. Ye dinna carry a warrior. He would be insulted.” The man continued walking.

God forbid she insult Malin. “Peter. We can't leave Peter here.”

Peter.
Now she realized what had bothered her when he'd picked up her other things. She'd been
holding the bag, backpack, and purse when
it
happened. She hadn't been holding Peter. So why was Peter here? Why not her sexy red car with the balloon payment due in two months? Two months. Which reminded her, if she didn't show up in court on February 14, her slimy, cheating ex-husband would win his stupid mental anguish case.

Once again the man paused. He cast her a long-suffering look. “Peter?”

“He's one of my toys. I have to get him.” She pointed.

He narrowed his gaze on the shiny metal hourglass waiting placidly beside a large bush. “'Tis passing strange.”

Inexplicably, she felt the need to defend Peter. “You have no room to talk, buster.”

He led her back to the toy, and when he would have picked Peter up, she rushed to grab her toy first. Clutching the shiny body, she smoothed her fingers over his two amber lights. She felt a rush of affection for the metal misfit and, yes, a sense of comfort in holding him. He was one of her last contacts with a life that seemed to be fading even as she stood clasping him.

Fear drove her into speech. As long as she could talk, she might stave off the bout of tears gathering at the back of her throat. “Who . . . who are you, and how did you do that thing with the honeysuckle and the brass bed?”

“Ian Ross.” He started walking again, obviously assuming she'd follow him. “And I did naught but
urge ye to find the things ye treasured so ye might weave them into yer desire.”

He assumed wrong. “That wasn't my desire.”

She sensed his smile. “Ye dinna
wish
it to be yer desire.”

“Okay, forget the desire thing. Who are you
really?
”

For what she sensed was the last time, he paused and turned toward her. Moving close, he invaded her space, and Kathy felt like she'd wandered into a sensual magnetic field. He slid his fingers along her jaw, down the side of her neck, then, lowering his head, he brushed her lips with his.

Searing heat and a need so strong it made every inch of her body clench held her rooted to the spot even as her mind screamed for her to run.
Close.
So close his eyes seemed silver rather than gray, his lashes dark smudges against his beard-shadowed skin. So close she inhaled the scent of mist, hot male, and danger.

She stumbled away from him. There was something about his closeness that—

“If Ian Ross be not enough for ye, mayhap ye need to know what others call me.” He followed her retreat until she was backed against a large boulder.

His size, pure maleness, and her unexplained reaction to him left her breathing hard, her breaths emerging as white puffs into the cold mist.

Grasping her chin, he gently raised her head till she was forced to meet his dark gaze. “Know me,
Kathy, Princess of Hair.” His smile ignited a flame that burned away her chill, that sent liquid fire through every vein.

“I am the Pleasure Master.”

Ian stepped back, knowing his effect on her as he knew his effect on all women. But that was not why he moved away. He enjoyed being close to women—watching their breathing quicken, the soft unfocused glow of their eyes, the slide of warm skin against his own.

He stepped back because he sensed danger. Ian's instincts had served him well in the past, and he would not ignore them now. For the first time in his life, a woman confused him. And confusion was a danger. She had clearly traveled far, but not in search of the Pleasure Master. Then why?

Mayhap Gordon Mackay had sent her. God's teeth, did the man never give up his quest to capture Ian? But then, Ian didn't think Gordon canny enough to send a woman such as this.

“I've answered yer question, lass, now ye must answer mine. What potion did ye use on my brothers? Ye spilled a wee bit on yerself, and ye didna seem worried, so I dinna think their man parts will fall off.”