Free Highlander’s Curse by Melissa Mayhue Page A

Miss, it’s no my Colin yer wanting. He’s no ever stepped foot in the States.”
    “I beg your pardon?” Oh, his feet had been in the States, all right. Not only had they been in the States, they’d been in her bed. This woman might not want to believe her husband had been there—hell,
she
didn’t want to believe Colin had a wife!—but it was fact.
    Clearly, she trod a fine line here. It might be best for everyone if she said nothing more. Just turned around and walked away. There was still a chance for her to save face before it was too late.
    But, as if controlled by a force outside herself, the words slipped from her mouth. “He told me his home was Dun Ard.”
    “Did he now?” Margaret’s smile broadened before she turned her head to call loudly over her shoulder, “Bella! Fetch Colin out here to the desk for me, please.”
    He was here! Somewhere back beyond that doorway where even now she could hear running footsteps.
    The hard, tight little ball that had once been her stomach suddenly sprouted butterflies. Big, hairy-assed acrobatic butterflies, from the feel of it. All wearing steel-toed boots and marching in lockstep formation across her intestines.
    The seconds dragged by in a fashion Abby would have denied was possible before now. Just as she’d decided she could stand it no longer, that she’d make some wild excuse and beat a hasty retreat, a small boy no more than eight or nine burst into the room. He ran straight to Margaret’s side, stopping to frown up at the woman.
    “What do you want of me, Mum? My show’s on telly. I’m missing it,” he complained.
    “Mind yer manners, lad.” With her hands on his shoulders, Margaret turned the boy around. “I’d like you to meet this nice lady who’s come for a visit. This is my son, Colin, and this is . . . begging yer pardon, miss. Did you give me yer name?”
    “Abby,” she offered, almost forgetting herself in her surprise as the boy politely shook her hand. “Abigail Porter.”
    This
was Colin MacAlister?
    “Run along back to yer telly, Colin. Sorry to have taken you from yer show.”
    With a shy smile, the child took off running and disappeared through the doorway.
    “Now, Miss Porter, do you still think it was my Colin you met?”
    Abby could only shake her head, waiting for her brain and her tongue to catch up with one another. This was altogether just plain wrong.
    He’d lied to her.
    He’d come home with her, climbed his naked butt into her bed, and lied to her.
    “I apologize for troubling you, Mrs. MacAlister. I was so sure that . . . but, obviously, I was mistaken and I’m sorry for taking up your time.”
    He’d lied. To her. God only knew who he really was.
    Her face burned with embarrassment and anger. The pitying look on Margaret’s face only made it worse.
    “Dinna you worry yerself over yer mistake, lassie. MacAlister’s a common enough name in these parts. Likely you misunderstood the gentleman as to the name of his home.”
    Yeah? No, not likely at all. He had lied to her. Plain, bold-faced lied.
    Abby’s breath caught as she made her way down the stone steps toward the spot where she’d left the car. The cold mist stung her face, helping her to concentrate on something other than the tears blurring her vision.
    Now what? This had been her last hope for getting him out of her head. Now she’d never find him, and that could mean she’d be haunted by him for the rest of her life.
    She climbed into the car, slammed the door shut, and leaned her head back against the leather headrest. “Liar!” She spat the condemnation into the empty car as if she confronted him.
    Damn him! He’d had absolutely no reason to lie to her. It wasn’t like she was going to turn into some psycho stalker who’d come looking for him.
    She stuck the key into the ignition, biting back a bitter laugh as she realized that was exactly what she’d turned into. She’d traveled over four thousand miles to Scotland and spent the whole of