Sword of the Highlander by Cynthia Breeding Page B

She would never have enough time to get to it and the safety of the back room. Maybe she could diffuse the situation.
    “Nice costume,” she said. “We rent costumes. Were you…were you looking for something like it? We have several…” She let her voice trail off, realizing she was prattling.
    He frowned and looked down at his plaid and then back at her, his golden eyes traveling slowly over her T-shirt and tight jeans. His eyes darkened to molten whisky. “’Tis ye who are dressed strangely.” His deep baritone voice would have made her knees turn to jelly if she weren’t so afraid she might die in the next few minutes. He looked at the empty helmet again. “Ye appear to be in nae danger. Why have ye summoned me, lass?”
    Summoned him ? Maybe she was hallucinating. Maybe the incense burning on the store’s counter held something more potent than sandalwood. She was just imagining a hot, medieval warrior had battled an empty coat of armor. Except for the fact that the two empty knights lay scattered on the floor around her.
    Then another thought hit her and she almost laughed. Carlotta. Carlotta had sent this man. Where she found him, or how she’d time to costume him, Cassidy didn’t know. But this was definitely something Carlotta would do.
    “I get it, Carlotta put you up to this, didn’t she? She’s always—”
    “I ken not who Carlotta is,” he interrupted, the square angle of his jaw hardening, “and I dinna have time to be blethering. I must be getting back to the MacBheatha. That young fool, Duncan, be making a fine muck of things, and we do battle soon.”
    Turning, he stomped to the door and threw it open, stepping out onto the sidewalk. Before Cassidy could move, he stepped back inside, slamming the door behind him.
    “What be this place? What be those noisy, metal monsters out there?” His eyes narrowed. “Be ye a witch?”
    “No! Of course not. What’s wrong with you?” She began to have a sickening feeling that he might be a lunatic. The area around Haight-Ashbury still drew some strange types. Perhaps she should talk more gently to him. “I’m not a witch. Those are just cars outside. Harmless.”
    “Cars?” He looked as though she were speaking a foreign language. “What be cars?”
    Dear Lord. He was more mentally-challenged than she thought. She looked at the ripped armor lying on the floor. He had violent tendencies as well. Where was her cell? She needed to call 911. Fast.
    As if he sensed her thoughts, he moved closer. Cassidy bolted for the back door, but he lunged, so quickly he was just a blur, and she found herself pressed up against his hard chest. His scent—her nose was practically buried in his sash—smelled clean, of soap and leather. Hardly the smell of a man on the streets. And, even though his arms felt like granite, he wasn’t hurting her. She breathed a little easier as he set her apart from him, but kept hold of her arm.
    “Dinna run, lass, and dinna be afraid. Tell me where I be.”
    Cassidy stared into his eyes, expecting to see the glazed look of someone who might be stoned—or worse. But his eyes were clear, his tawny gaze focused on her.
    “You’re in San Francisco.”
    He shook his head. “I ken no such place.”
    “America,” she added.
    He frowned. “How far is this place from Alba?”
    Now it was her turn to frown. Alba was the old Gaelic term for Scotland and he certainly had a Scot’s burr. Maybe he was an actor. Carlotta could still be behind this.
    But, for now, she would play along until she could get to her cell.
    “It’s across the sea. Far, far away.”
    “How do I get back?”
    “You could fly. That would be easiest.”
    His eyes widened. “Ye mock me? Ye know man cannot fly.”
    “No. No. I meant, in a plane.” When he looked blank, she added. “It’s another metal…thing that you sit in.” Dear Lord. She wished she knew more about mental illness. What was his problem? He was glowering again.
    “What year of the