Free Every Time with a Highlander by Gwyn Cready Page A

mocking smile.
    The hair he wished to feel brushing his chest was not from a shirt but twisted tightly in a blond knot at her nape.
    â€œUndine,” the brunette said, trying to catch her friend’s attention.
    â€œI thought even Bankside clerics could afford a sark.”
    â€œ Undine. ”
    That broke the spell. Undine cast her gaze in the direction the brunette was looking, and so did he.
    His trousers.
    Not breeks. Not trewes. Not even Elizabethan cannions. He was wearing bespoke trousers from a tailor in Savile Row. He’d never had a woman, let alone two, more entranced by the real estate below his belt. It would have been less uncomfortable if he’d been naked.
    The brunette shook her head. “Oh, Undine…”
    Speechless, Undine looked at the habit and back at his trousers.
    â€œHe’s not…from here,” the brunette said in a tone laden with a meaning Michael couldn’t quite unpack.
    â€œI can see that.”
    â€œHe’s from—”
    â€œ Aye. I can see that too, Abby.”
    â€œHow does this keep happening ?”
    Undine’s eyes cut to his. “You told me you were from Bankside.” The fiery independence had turned into flat-out fire.
    â€œI am from Bankside,” he said.
    â€œYou’re a liar .”
    Gah. Downgraded. “I didn’t lie. I am from Bankside. You presumed I was from Bankside in your time . Your presumptions are not my responsibility. Your presumptions are—”
    â€œBe quiet,” she said. “I need to think.”
    The door at the top of the stairs opened, and a man called down softly, “ Mo chridhe , there’s a man up here looking for a priest.”
    â€œHe’s here,” Undine said, adding to Michael, “Take off your breeks.”
    The man on the stairs said, “I beg your pardon. Did you just say, ‘Take off your breeks’? To whom are you speaking? Should I be coming down?”
    â€œTry to send our visitor away,” Undine called.
    Michael strained for a view of the man, who closed the door, grumbling. “ Mo chridhe ” meant “my heart,” and Michael wondered who would be calling Undine that. He kicked off his sandals and unbuttoned his trousers. “Was that…your brother?” he asked.
    The brunette chuckled and Undine silenced her with a look.
    â€œFind him shoes, breeks, and a bigger sark, would you?” Undine said, and Abby scampered off.
    â€œYou need to leave here as soon as possible,” Undine said. “The judge is an acquaintance of Bridgewater’s. Go to the Leaping Stag,” she said. “There’ll be a couple there—brown hair and red, deeply in love—it’s quite stomach turning, believe me—and tell them you’re my colleague. They’ll hide you until I can gather the herbs you’ll need to leave and get them to Abby in Coldstream, probably tomorrow.”
    Michael extracted himself from his trousers reluctantly. He understood the need to get into a different disguise, but he would have preferred if one of the steps in the transition hadn’t included him standing in front of the naiad in his bright-red Arsenal trunks.
    She frowned, a mixture of shock and fascination on her face. “Is that a cannon?”
    â€œYes. It’s their symbol—the team’s, I mean. Arsenal. They’re a football team.” He found it hard to clarify his thoughts while she examined the design with such intensity.
    â€œFoot… bal l ?”
    â€œIt’s not… It doesn’t have to do with those balls. It’s a sport. The players use a leather ball filled with air. You kick it, you know, with your foot.” He demonstrated a slow-motion kick, but her attention remained undiverted.
    â€œIt’s quite large, isn’t it? And red?”
    It felt very, very small from Michael’s perspective.
    â€œTell me,” she said, “do all the men in your time