Highlander 04 - Some Like It Kilted (2010) Read Online Free PDF Page A

then rocked back on his heels. “All the pleasure of chasing away any American lassies who might darken my door!”
     
Hoots of laughter greeted his outburst. Many merrymakers slapped their thighs or pounded on the trestle tables. Some gave mock gasps of horror.
     
All were amused.
     
Saor simply stared. “An American?”
     
“So I said.” Bran nodded, not quite sure where the notion had come from. “Dinnae tell me you’ve ne’er heard of them. Everyone knows they enjoy poking about our glens and castles, searching for their roots, as it were!”
     
More sniggers and snorts answered him.
     
Bran marched across the dais to jam a finger into the plaid-draped chest of the man who’d laughed the loudest. “You’d sing another tune if one of the long-fingered lassies snatched you into their day!”
     
He leaned down, nose to nose with the other ghostie. “I’ve been to their America. Once, it was! A place called Pen-seal -somewhere. The memory jellies my knees and”—he straightened—“still has the power to tie my toes in knots. Trust me, you dinnae want to land in the clutches of an American, most especially the ones that call themselves Scotophiles. They’re the worst o’ the lot.
     
“And I’ll no’ have any here.” Bran glared round, in warning. The idea of falling prey to such a female on Barra—or anywhere—made his insides quiver.
     
Blessedly, the possibility wasn’t a likely danger. He rarely visited modern times and absolutely refused to sift himself to Barra of the current day.
     
But it wouldn’t hurt to have a plan if the unthinkable ever happened.
     
Relieved that he did, he raised his arms above his head and cracked his knuckles, eager to arm-wrestle Saor and put American wenches from his mind. A wink and a smile were all he needed to find himself seated at the table he’d readied. Proud of his flourish, he shoved up his sleeve and planted his elbow firmly on the board, grinning.
     
Not to be outdone, Saor flicked his wrist to fetch a cup of ale from the air, downing the brew to its dregs in one long gulp. He laughed when the emptied cup vanished from his fingers, and quick as winking, he, too, had claimed his place across from Bran.
     
“So, my friend!” He plunked his own arm on the table and grabbed Bran’s waiting hand. “Let us see who shall have the pleasure of chasing American lassies from this fine isle! But be warned.” His deep voice held a note of amusement. “The ghosts one calls are e’er summoned!”
     
Chuckles and hoots rippled through the group of gathered onlookers. Several nudged one another or exchanged merry-eyed glances, though one or two tried to hide their laughs behind sudden bouts of coughing.
     
Bran ignored them all and concentrated on keeping his arm steady. At his elbow, the pricket flame leapt and danced. He could feel the candle’s warmth licking him, waiting. Unconcerned, he let his lips twitch, sure of victory. His wrists were free of telltale burn scars and he wasn’t about to put one there now.
     
So he kept his arm relaxed and let Saor do the straining. Already his friend’s jaw was setting, his teeth gritted, and tiny beads of sweat began to dot his brow. No longer laughing, the crowd around the table drew near, some men leaning down to bang the table with their fists. Saor grimaced, pushing fiercely as the pounding beat became a rhythm.
     
Bran paid no heed, the roar of his own blood in his ears louder than his friends’ thunderous encouragement. Saor was squeezing his hand now, the other man’s grip almost bone crushing as he tried to push Bran’s arm onto the candle.
     
“You cannae win.” Bran ground out the words, his own brow growing damp. “Give and spare yourself a brand!”
     
Saor flashed a grin and strained harder. “You are the one about to be burned!”
     
Bran snorted.
     
In truth, he was burning.
     
The muscles in his neck and shoulders had suddenly caught fire, sending scorching heat shooting