One

With a shriek of frustrated bloodlust, Duncan jerked to a stop as the crossing signal turned red. The musket-wielding French soldier he'd been chasing sprinted to the safety of the opposite sidewalk, nearly knocking down two young women carrying Macy's bags in the process.

Och, Duncan thought with irritation. There's only one thing you can count on with Frenchmen: they run better than they fight.

One of the women looked at Duncan and grinned. At six foot one with flaming red hair and a Scottish burr, he was used to being noticed. However, the kilt-his grand-da's from the Korean War-inevitably turned the looks into something more prurient. A gust of wind blew down Pittsburgh's Grant Street, and he palmed the wool against his thighs. Sometimes he wished he lived in a world where a man's bare legs weren't the object of such fascination.

"Reenactor?" the woman called.

He lifted his carved wooden sword and blank-filled pistol and gave her a lopsided grin. "Battle of Fort Duquesne."

A roiling gray now edged the blue sky. Duncan hoped the storm they were predicting would hold off until after he was in the air tonight. He hadn't been home to Scotland since Christmas, and by all rights he should have skipped the reenactment since he could only spare a week of holiday time. But there were so few battles in North America in which the Highlanders had fought, he'd hated to say no. His grand-da was his last immediate family member still around, and the old guy was in his eighties. Duncan knew a visit was in order, and he fought off a wave of guilt he knew he deserved for putting the reenactment first.

The walk light turned green just as a band of Seneca warriors, bows drawn, emerged on Fourth Street. In this particular battle, they were allied with the French and therefore his enemy. Not only that, but their leader, a blustery fellow named Dylan, had been a complete arse the night before in a debate over rugby versus gridiron. The Senecas spotted him and Duncan's adrenaline surged. Time to teach the old boy a lesson. With a nod to the women, he lifted his sword and flew directly into the hail of rubber-tipped arrows.

God, how he loved a battle.

Excerpted from Just in Time for a Highlander by Gwyn Cready All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.