Kiss of the Highlander Read Online Free PDF Page B

didn’t quite follow with the blanket thingie he was wearing, where part of it ended up over one shoulder. After fastening a pouch about his waist, he draped wide bands of leather over each shoulder so that they crossed in an
X
over his chest. These he secured at his waist with another wide band of leather that belted them snugly in place, then he donned a fourth band that encircled his pecs.
    Was he dressing in some old costume?
Gwen wondered. She’d seen something similar to his attire in a castle her group had toured yesterday, on one of the medieval sketches in the armory. Their guide had explained that the bands fashioned a sort of armor, adorned in critical places—such as above the heart and over the abdomen—with ornate metal discs.
    As she watched, he fastened similar leather bands that stretched from wrist to elbow around his powerful forearms. She stared in silence when he began tucking dozens of knives away—knives that looked alarmingly real. Two went into each wristband, handle down toward his palm, ten on each crossband. When he bent to the dwindling pile and hefted a massive double-bladed ax, she flinched.
Cherry tree chopper-downer, indeed.
Definitely not a man a woman could take any chances with. He raised an arm and lowered it behind his right shoulder, sliding the handle into the bands across his back. Last, he sheathed a sword at his waist.
    By the time he was done she was aghast. “Are those real?”
    He turned a cool silver gaze on her. “Aye. You can scarce kill a man otherwise.”
    “Kill a man?” she repeated faintly.
    He shrugged and eyed the hole above them and said nothing for a long while. Just when she was beginning to think he’d forgotten her entirely, he said, “I could toss you that high.”
    Oh, yes, he probably could. With one arm.
“No, thank you,” she said frostily. Small she might be, a basketball she was not.
    He grinned at her tone. “But I fear that doing so might cause more rocks to collapse upon us. Come, we will find the way out.”
    She swallowed. “You
really
don’t remember where you came in?”
    “Nay, lass, I’m afraid I doona.” He measured her for a moment. “Nor do I recall why,” he added reluctantly.
    His response troubled her. How could he not know how or why he’d entered the cave, when he had obviously come in, removed his weapons, and piled them neatly before lying down? Did he have amnesia?
    “Come. We must make haste. I care naught for this place. You must put your clothes back on.”
    Her hackles rose and she barely resisted the urge to hiss like a cat. “My clothes
are
on.”
    He raised a brow, then shrugged. “As you will. If you are comfortable strolling about in such a fashion, far be it from me to complain.” Crossing the chamber, he took her wrist and began dragging her along.
    Gwen allowed him to tug her behind him for a short distance, but once they’d left the cavern, all light disappeared. He was guiding them by feeling his way along the wall of the tunnel, his other hand latched about her wrist, and she began to fear they might plunge into another crevice, hidden by the darkness. “Do you know these caves?” she asked. The blackness was so absolute that it was crowding her in, suffocating her. She needed light and she needed it now.
    “Nay, and if you are telling me the truth and you fell through the hole, then you doona either,” he reminded. “Have you a better idea?”
    “Yes.” She tugged on his hand. “If you’ll just stop a moment, I can help.”
    “Have you fire to light our way, wee English? For ’tis what we sorely need.”
    His voice was amused, and it irritated her. He’d taken her measure, deemed her helpless, and that pissed her off. And why did he keep calling her English? Was it the Scottish version of American, and perhaps they called people from England British? She knew she had a trace of an English accent because her mother had been raised and schooled in England, but it wasn’t
that
pronounced.