Sword of the Highlander by Cynthia Breeding Page A

hand. “Do not worry, my sweet. If I ever meet your mysterious boss, I will mind my manners and pretend to be interested. Now, I must run. I’m meeting a new man for drinks at the Hilton tower and I want to be only a little bit late.”
    Cassidy smiled. “Where did you meet this one?
    Her friend shrugged. “At the fragrance counter at Macy’s. He was selecting an aftershave. I told him I liked a different brand better.”
    “And of course he asked you out.”
    “Something like that.” Carlotta tossed her hair back and grinned. “You know, my pet, you shouldn’t sit home tonight just because Aubrey is off to New York. You’re still a free woman.”
    She shook her head. “I really have to catalog that sword.”
    “Well, then—” Carlotta gave her a quick hug and kissed the air beside her cheek—“perhaps I shall send some infinitely sensual, sexy man to you. You’re too young to keep your nose stuck in this musty place. Ta-ta.”
    Cassidy shook her head as Carlotta left, wishing she had some of the casual flippancy that came so naturally to her friend. Locking the front door, Cassidy flipped the ‘Closed’ sign in place. Mr. Sinclair was most insistent that real artifacts be handled with utmost security. And who knew what this sword would be worth? He had purchased it from a private investor, sight unseen.
    Cassidy picked up the long box and carried it to the table where she carefully undid the tape and tried to lift the heavy sword from its nesting. A Scottish claymore, nearly five feet in length. The hilt was overlaid in gold and a large ruby winked red fire from the pommel. It might have been a ceremonial sword, except the blade looked too sharp and too thick not to have been used in battle. She closed both hands on the grip, trying to imagine how big and muscular a Highlander would have needed to be to swing the mighty sword over his head and bring it down.
    She frowned slightly as she noticed some slight scratches in the gold. Leaning closer, Cassidy realized the scratches were really some sort of writing, possibly Gaelic. Her pulse quickened as she traced a fingertip along the fine lines. Given her fertile imagination, she could almost hear a pitched battle on some remote, craggy hill, swords clanging, shields clashing, while men grunted and slashed their way to gain the footage to the top. The warrior wielding the sword led the charge.
    A crash from the front room brought her out of her reverie. It sounded like the empty armor from one of the two knights that stood near the front door. A feral cat must have gotten inside the store. Quickly, Cassidy shoved the sword and its box into the cabinet next to the table, automatically locking it, and slipped the key inside her pants pocket. The second knight crashed to the floor. The darn cat must be going berserk. She rushed for the door and flung it open, only to stumble to such an abrupt halt that she nearly landed on her backside.
    A man straddled the second knight, punching the armor and tearing parts off, scattering it everywhere. Cassidy blinked. The man was dressed as a Highlander, a kilt of bright blue squares interwoven with red, black, and yellow hiked high on bare, well-muscled thighs. Powerful biceps bulged as he fought the armor. Long, black hair flowed over broad shoulders that strained under the linen of his leine . An empty, leather baldric strapped across his back and Cassidy saw then that he held a claymore, nearly as big as the one in the back room, in his right hand.
    He stilled suddenly, as though aware of her presence, and turned slowly, holding an empty helmet in his other hand. His eyes glittered golden and as predatory as a hawk. Cassidy took an involuntary step backwards as he studied her.
    Slowly he stood, towering a good foot taller than her. He moved toward her with the stealth and grace of a panther stalking its prey. Was he high on drugs? He didn’t weave and the weapon certainly was lethal. Cassidy glanced toward the back door.