Highlander 04 - Some Like It Kilted (2010) Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Allie Mackay
when a woman appeared inside the blue-edged shape hovering in front of him, his mouth went dry and he could feel his throat working.
The woman wasn’t just any female.
She was a modern woman , he was sure.
Comely and fair, she stared right at him, her eyes wide with horror and every bit as blue as the shimmering light surrounding her. An unseen wind tossed her sun- bright hair about a face that—under different circumstances—would send lust thundering straight to his loins. But her mouth, sweet and lush as it was, had opened in a silent scream, the sight dashing any such urges before they could rise.
He did take a step closer, drawn like a moth to flame even though he knew he should flee.
But her lush curves beckoned and her urgent need . . .
Bran swore and reached out a hand, compelled to comfort her. As if she knew, her lovely eyes rounded with an even greater look of terror. Then she veered away, dashing deeper into the mist trapped inside the glowing blue frame.
She vanished almost as quickly as he’d seen her.
Sadly, not before he noted her clothing.
She was wearing breeks.
The heavy blue kind folk of her day called jeans.
Bran swallowed hard, his own horror mounting as the shimmering blue light contracted back into a single spinning beam. A brilliant wand of dazzling light that again bobbed and danced in the air before him. Until it suddenly stopped weaving and floated toward him, pointing straight at his heart before, with a crackling hum , the beam leapt back inside the Heartbreaker’s crystal, leaving him alone with the icy-cold truth.
The bards hadn’t lied about the mythic blade.
There were times when a woman’s distress could summon the crystal’s magic.
Women who carried MacNeil blood in their veins. Or females who—Bran couldn’t deny it—were inextricably bound to a MacNeil male, usually a chieftain.
Either way, the truth of the sword unerringly revealed the MacNeil destined to champion the woman.
Such fates were etched in stone.
Bran shoved a hand through his hair, certain the cobbles beneath his feet had just opened up to swallow him. He felt decidedly ill. After seven hundred years of merry ghostdom, his own beloved sword had finally brought his world crashing down around him. There could be no escape.
Not from the Heartbreaker’s prophecy. Nor from the American lass he knew would soon land on his doorstep. He should have listened to Saor’s warning about calling ghosts.
Now he was doomed.
Though the Heartbreaker’s crystal was quiet now, its glistening roundness cold and benign as the night’s chill mist, Bran could still see the woman’s startled blue eyes. They pierced him through dimensions and—he knew—across great distances.
Bran scowled. His chest tightened with fury.
As if the Heartbreaker meant to torment him even more, images flooded his mind. They were wanton, lascivious glimpses of tumbling the lass on a bed of turf and heather. That, he could well imagine.
More damning yet, he could feel the maid’s presence. Taste her kiss on his tongue as if he’d already ravished her. Soon, he knew, she’d be here. Tempting him as only modern-day sirens could.
Bran groaned. Then he tipped back his head and stared at the moon, peeking out from behind a wisp of torn clouds. If only he could be somewhere as distant.
But MacNeil’s Tower was his home and he wasn’t leaving.
He’d deal with the American when she arrived. As long as she wasn’t from Pen-seal -where’er, his chances of withstanding her were good.
It was just a matter of preparing.
Chapter 2
Mindy stood in the doorway to the long gallery, refusing to budge. Not that her legs would carry her anywhere even if she wished to flee. Her knees knocked furiously, her feet felt like lead, and a good dozen angry- looking MacNeil ghosts were blocking her way. Big, bad medieval spooks with bushy
The woman wasn’t just any female.
She was a modern woman , he was sure.
Comely and fair, she stared right at him, her eyes wide with horror and every bit as blue as the shimmering light surrounding her. An unseen wind tossed her sun- bright hair about a face that—under different circumstances—would send lust thundering straight to his loins. But her mouth, sweet and lush as it was, had opened in a silent scream, the sight dashing any such urges before they could rise.
He did take a step closer, drawn like a moth to flame even though he knew he should flee.
But her lush curves beckoned and her urgent need . . .
Bran swore and reached out a hand, compelled to comfort her. As if she knew, her lovely eyes rounded with an even greater look of terror. Then she veered away, dashing deeper into the mist trapped inside the glowing blue frame.
She vanished almost as quickly as he’d seen her.
Sadly, not before he noted her clothing.
She was wearing breeks.
The heavy blue kind folk of her day called jeans.
Bran swallowed hard, his own horror mounting as the shimmering blue light contracted back into a single spinning beam. A brilliant wand of dazzling light that again bobbed and danced in the air before him. Until it suddenly stopped weaving and floated toward him, pointing straight at his heart before, with a crackling hum , the beam leapt back inside the Heartbreaker’s crystal, leaving him alone with the icy-cold truth.
The bards hadn’t lied about the mythic blade.
There were times when a woman’s distress could summon the crystal’s magic.
Women who carried MacNeil blood in their veins. Or females who—Bran couldn’t deny it—were inextricably bound to a MacNeil male, usually a chieftain.
Either way, the truth of the sword unerringly revealed the MacNeil destined to champion the woman.
Such fates were etched in stone.
Bran shoved a hand through his hair, certain the cobbles beneath his feet had just opened up to swallow him. He felt decidedly ill. After seven hundred years of merry ghostdom, his own beloved sword had finally brought his world crashing down around him. There could be no escape.
Not from the Heartbreaker’s prophecy. Nor from the American lass he knew would soon land on his doorstep. He should have listened to Saor’s warning about calling ghosts.
Now he was doomed.
Though the Heartbreaker’s crystal was quiet now, its glistening roundness cold and benign as the night’s chill mist, Bran could still see the woman’s startled blue eyes. They pierced him through dimensions and—he knew—across great distances.
Bran scowled. His chest tightened with fury.
As if the Heartbreaker meant to torment him even more, images flooded his mind. They were wanton, lascivious glimpses of tumbling the lass on a bed of turf and heather. That, he could well imagine.
More damning yet, he could feel the maid’s presence. Taste her kiss on his tongue as if he’d already ravished her. Soon, he knew, she’d be here. Tempting him as only modern-day sirens could.
Bran groaned. Then he tipped back his head and stared at the moon, peeking out from behind a wisp of torn clouds. If only he could be somewhere as distant.
But MacNeil’s Tower was his home and he wasn’t leaving.
He’d deal with the American when she arrived. As long as she wasn’t from Pen-seal -where’er, his chances of withstanding her were good.
It was just a matter of preparing.
Chapter 2
Mindy stood in the doorway to the long gallery, refusing to budge. Not that her legs would carry her anywhere even if she wished to flee. Her knees knocked furiously, her feet felt like lead, and a good dozen angry- looking MacNeil ghosts were blocking her way. Big, bad medieval spooks with bushy
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