Fifteen minutes till eight. Would he be on time? The minutes stretched out, ticking by at an incredibly slow rate. What would it be like to have an eternity of nights? Or the ability to teleport somewhere in an instant? With their superior abilities, Emma could understand why vampires considered themselves superior. But in her experience, all serial killers considered themselves superior.
That's all vampires were, really. Serial killers with superior abilities that made them harder to kill. The only good thing about them was that they were already dead. She didn't have to capture one and wait for a slow justice system to deliver a satisfactory ending. No delayed gratification here. When she found one, she killed it.
Ten minutes till. She circled the oak tree where the rope was anchored. She needed to keep her muscles warm and her senses alert. She'd have to act quickly. Not think about how handsome he looked in a kilt. Not think about witty, clever conversation. Her mission was two-fold. Discover his status—human or monster. Then kill him if he was the latter.
She cringed at the thought of watching the sparkle die in his lovely green eyes. She'd never talked to a vampire before killing one. The four she had killed had been in the process of attacking and raping a woman while they fed from her. The sight had been so horrid and repulsive, she'd had no trouble delivering justice.
She couldn't imagine Angus doing that to a woman. He'd seemed offended by the flasher. And he'd lectured her on safety. What vampire would act that way? Oh God, she prayed, don't let him be a vampire. Let him be the queen's hero and the grandson of a knighted war hero. Let him be the man of her fantasies—a fierce, honorable warrior who could fight evil by her side.
"Good evening, Miss Wallace."
She whirled toward the deep voice but could barely discern his dark silhouette in the distance. Her heart raced. He looked wonderful. He looked dangerous.
He stepped toward her, and his kilt swirled around his knees. "Thank ye for coming. We need to talk."
"Yes, we do." She put her psychic defenses up. If he was a vampire, he could try to manipulate her mentally. She edged toward the middle of the small clearing. All he needed to do was walk straight toward her, and he'd step into the trap. "I was beginning to think you weren't coming."
"I am a man of my word."
But are you alive? That was the real question. If he was undead, he wouldn't know the meaning of honesty. Or honor.
He sauntered toward her, close enough that she could see him more clearly. His kilt was the same blue and green plaid he'd worn the night before, but tonight's jumper, or sweater as the Yanks called it, was blue. There were no leather straps crossing his chest like last night. He hadn't brought his sword. Her gaze lowered to his socks. He wasn't completely unarmed. Hissgian dubh was in place beneath his right sock.
He paused, tilting his head to study her. She held her breath. Did he suspect something?
With two more steps he'd be in the trap, swinging upside down. She knew good and well a vampire wouldn't stay trapped for long. He'd simply teleport away.
"Ye have stakes in yer belt."
She shrugged one shoulder. "Better safe than sorry."
He frowned. "Ye are safe with me, lass. I would never harm you."
"You have a knife."
He glanced down. "A mere habit. I usually have my claymore, too, but I left it behind so ye'd know I meant ye no harm."
"Are you confessing to being my enemy?"
"Nay. I could be a… good friend."
He looked so sincere. What if he really was a champion for the queen? What if he risked his life for his country, asking for no recognition or credit in return? He could be a hero.
He could be everything she'd ever dreamed a man could be.
"Miss Wallace?" He stepped toward her.
A surge of panic swept through her. Suddenly she didn't want to know the truth. She wanted to believe that strong, gorgeous men in kilts were heroes, not demons. She held up a hand. "Stop!"
Too late. He stepped right into the center of the noose. It snapped tightly around his ankle. He shot her a look right before the rope jerked him off his feet.
That look had hurt. Shock, anger, betrayal—she'd felt it all in his eyes. Shit! It couldn't be helped. She had to know if he was friend or foe. She whipped a stake from her belt. If he was a vampire, she'd have to act quickly.
She looked up. And her mouth fell open. The stake tumbled from her hand. Good heavens. Angus MacKay was hanging upside down with the hem of his kilt dangling around his neck.
Emma blinked. Good Lord, she'd never been mooned by such a heavenly body. Narrow hips, muscular buttocks, smooth skin kissed with silvery moonlight. The tree branch overhead swayed from his weight, causing his body to bob softly up and down. She matched the rhythm, nodding like a bobble-headed toy to stay focused on his glorious bare bum.