Beyond the Highland Myst(464)

A sinfully sexy man.

When not only hadn't one been harmed, one had been quite tantalizingly kissed.

And although she had no idea what tomorrow would bring, she was curious to find out. What could he be looking for? Was it possible he was no more than what he presented himself as? A wealthy man who needed certain information for some reason, who—if he couldn't obtain the texts he needed by legitimate means—stole them, intending to return them?

"Right. Color me stupid." Chloe rolled her eyes.

Still, throwing a wrench into the works, impairing her ability to neatly label him a thief, was the fact that he'd donated valuable, authenticated artifacts in exchange for the third Book of Manannan.

Why would the Gaulish Ghost do such a thing? The facts just weren't adding up to the profile of a coldblooded mercenary. She was bursting with curiosity. She'd long suspected it might one day be her downfall and, indeed, it had landed her in quite a pickle.

After dinner, he'd untied her and escorted her to the bathroom adjoining the master suite (walking a bit too dose for her comfort, making her painfully aware of two hundred-plus pounds of solid male muscle behind her). A few minutes and a knock later, he'd informed her he'd placed a shirt and sweats (he'd called them trews) outside the door.

She'd spent thirty minutes in the locked bathroom, first snooping for a convenient person-sized heating duct—the kind one frequently saw in the movies but never found in real life—then deliberating over whether writing an SOS message in lipstick on the window might accomplish anything. Other than him finding it and getting aggravated. She'd opted not. Not just yet anyway. No need to alert him to her intention to escape at the earliest opportunity.

She'd not felt brave enough to risk nudity and showering, even with the locked door, so she'd washed up a bit, then brushed her teeth with his toothbrush because there was no way she was not going to brush her teeth. She'd felt strange using it. She'd never used a man's toothbrush before. But after all, she'd rationalized, they'd eaten from the same fork. And she'd nearly had his tongue in her mouth. Honestly would have rather liked his tongue in her mouth, so long as she had a firm guarantee it would stop there. (She wasn't about to become the next pair of panties beneath his bed, not that she had any to leave.)

She drowned in his clothes, but at least when he'd retied her to the bed, she hadn't had to worry about her skirt riding up. The sweats were drawstring—the only saving grace—rolled up about ten times, the shirt fell to her knees. No panties was a bit disconcerting.

He'd tucked her beneath the coverlet. Tested the bonds. Lengthened them slightly so she might sleep more comfortably.

Then he'd stood at the edge of the bed a moment, gazing down at her with an unfathomable expression in his exotic golden eyes. Unnerved, she'd broken eye contact first and rolled—inasmuch as she was able—onto her side away from him.

Sheesh, she thought, blinking heavy-lidded, sleepy eyes. She smelled like him. It was all over her.

She was falling asleep. She couldn't believe it. In the midst of such dreadful, stressful circumstances, she was falling asleep.

Well, she told herself, she needed her sleep so her wits would be sharp tomorrow. Tomorrow she would escape.

He hadn't tried to kiss her again, was her final, slightly wistful, and utterly ridiculous thought before she drifted off.

Several hours later, too restless to sleep, Dageus was in the living room, listening to the rain pattering against the windows and poring over the Midhe Codex, a collection of mostly nonsensical myths and vague prophecies ("a massive muddling mess of medieval miscellany," one renowned scholar had called it, and Dageus was inclined to agree), when the phone rang. He glanced at it warily, but did not rise to answer it.

A long pause, a beep, then "Dageus,'tis Drustan."

Silence.

"You know how I hate talking to machines. Dageus."

Long silence, a heavy sigh.

Dageus fisted his hands, unfisted them, then massaged his temples with the heels of his palms.

"Gwen's in the hospital—"

Dageus's head whipped toward the answering machine, he half-rose, but stopped.

"She had untimely contractions."

Worry in his twin brother's voice. It knifed straight to Dageus's heart. Gwen was six-and-a-half-months pregnant with twins. He held his breath, listening. He'd not sacrificed so much to bring his brother and his brother's wife together in the twenty-first century, only to have something happen to Gwen now.

"But she's fine now."

Dageus breathed again and sank back down to the sofa.

"The doctors said sometimes it happens in the last trimester, and so long as she doesn't have further contractions, they'll consider releasing her on the morrow."