Page 50 of Highlander Unraveled
“Well, finally. I thought ye’d be at it all night.”
The light in the bedroom flicked on. I leapt backward, falling from Logan’s lap to see the door wide open and Mrs. MacDonald standing in the doorway, her black box in one hand and a gun in the other.
14
Logan
Ileapt from the bed, holding my hands out to block Emma from the elderly woman holding a miniature canon in one hand and the same black box I’d seen Steven handling, in the other.
“Who in bloody hell are ye?” I bellowed.
She gazed at me with contempt, her lackluster eyes roaming down and then up the front of my body.
“Does it truly matter?” she asked.
“Damned right it does,” I said through bared teeth. “Ye’ve barged into our chamber, interrupted a verra private moment, not to mention the canon ye’ve got pointed our way.”
“That’s Mrs. MacDonald,” Emma said from behind me, her fingers gently stroking my back.
The older woman grunted, her eyes narrowing. She didn’t seem the least bit fazed by my wrath. What game did she play?
“Tell your blustering lover I’m harmless,” Mrs. MacDonald said, though the wry smile on her face said otherwise.
“He is my husband,” Emma said proudly.
“Anyone with the name MacDonald is an enemy of mine.” I glanced toward the floor, my sword only a few feet in front. Would it be enough time for her to light the fuse at the end of her small canon? For that was the way she’d fire it, was it not? I prayed it was…
“She has a gun,” Emma murmured. “They are deadly, Logan.”
Mrs. MacDonald snickered. “That’s right. Ye’ve never seen one of these have ye?” She pointed the canon—gun?—toward the corner of the room, twitched her finger, which was followed by a loud thunder cracking the air in the room. The floor in the corner erupted into splinters of wood and carpet.
“What the—” But my surprise was short lived as I realized that very deadly canon-gun did not need to be lit, but could apparently be fired by a mere twitch of a finger.
An enemy wasn’t even given a chance to protect themselves. The way it had splintered the wood, a shield wouldn’t help. What had the modern world come to?
Mrs. MacDonald waved the gun toward me, her lips pulled back in a snarl. I held my arms out to the side, protectively blocking Emma.
“I have no qualms shooting ye right in the head”—she looked down at my groin and jutted her chin—“either one.”
Damn. How was I supposed to fight with the weapon she had? With a twitch of her finger she’d blow my fucking ballocks off.
I held out my arms in surrender, took a slow step forward and smiled at her. Seemed my wits were going to be the best weapon in disarming her right now. If I could get close enough to remove the bloody thing from her gnarled fingers.
“If we could just talk,” I started, but she cut me off.
“Stop right there.” Mrs. MacDonald blew out a disgusted snort, and rolled her eyes away from me. “Put some damned clothes on.”
“Lower your weapon.” My voice was firm but still congenial.
She raised a brow. “Not likely to happen.”
“I’ll put on some clothes if ye only lower it a moment.”
She rolled her eyes. “I have a mind to blow ye to smithereens before ye get the chance.”
“Mrs. MacDonald.” Emma managed to scoot around me before I could hold her back.
My beautiful wife was already dressed in the black gown she’d worn earlier, though the way her breasts moved with the fabric, I could tell she’d not bothered with the heinous contraption she called a bra, thank the saints. She held up her hands. “Please. I don’t know what’s going on. But you helped me before. I trusted you. What’s changed? Is it money? How can I change your mind?”
