by Sabrina York
The first man—the leader—looked her up and down. His lip curled and he sneered, “What is it? Why, a Cameron spy of course.”
CHAPTER TWO
Maggie yelped as, without warning, the burly warrior named Declan whipped her up into his arms and tossed her over his shoulder. To her dismay, she lost her hold on the locket and it fell into the thick grass.
“Wait,” she cried. She wriggled to get free, but his grip was too hard. When she pummeled his back with her fists as he strode from the circle of stones, he chuckled. The beast. But to be fair, he was so large, it would have felt like a kitten batting him. “Put me down.”
“I willna,” he said. “The Macintosh will decide how you die.”
All right. That shut her up. For a second. “Die? Why do I need to die?” What the hell had she ever done to him?
The man following, an enormous blond with a scar tracking his cheek, bent down to peer at her. “The Macintoshes doona tolerate spies.”
“I’m not a spy.” Seriously. She wriggled more and Declan smacked her ass.
Smacked her ass.
She’d kill him when she got free. Just kill him.
“Yer wearing the Cameron colors,” the blond said in a growl. “And the Macintoshes doona—”
“Right. I know. The Macintoshes doona tolerate spies.” Her head was starting to spin from being upside down and jounced around with each step. Her temper was on a short leash. “But honestly, if I were a spy, would I wear the Cameron colors? It seems a little counterproductive in my opinion. I mean, if I’m spying and all. I might as well wear a t-shirt that says, oh, I dunno, honk if you love spies.”
His brow rumpled but he didn’t respond. At least, not to her. “She speaks strangely,” he complained to Declan.
Her captor snorted a laugh. “She dresses strangely too.”
“Aye. She does at that. I’ve heard the Cameron lasses are a wild lot, but I had no idea—”
“I’m. Not. A. Cameron.” She reached out and smacked the blond, but only because he came close enough. He reared back and gaped at her—as though he’d never been smacked before—and then he quickly moved out of range.
It hardly mattered, because, apparently, they had reached their destination, a camp on the edge of the woods. The sounds of nickering horses and clanks of pots gave her her first clue—she was facing the other way, after all.
Her second clue was that Declan dropped her on the ground. She landed with an oof. She glared at him. He didn’t seem to mind in the slightest. “Go get my brother, Ewan,” he barked, and the blond trotted off to one of the larger tents.
When she stood and brushed off her jeans, Declan bristled and she shot him a sardonic glare. Did he think she was stupid enough to run away? For one thing, these enormous men had her surrounded. For another, she never ran. Not if she could help it.
Instead, she made a quick survey of her surroundings. The camp was little more than a huddle of tents with the forest on one side and a sweeping plain on the other. A small herd of horses was hobbled to one side and a deer roasted over a pit fire. An entire deer. Before she could silence the thought—she often had that problem—she said, “You killed Bambi.”
Declan’s brow rumpled. “I dinna kill anyone.” And then he asked, “Who is Bambi?”
“Never mind.” She crossed her arms and turned away, pretending to ignore them. But she wasn’t. She was aware they were all staring at her like she was a curiosity in a zoo, but she was taking in tiny details as well. Like the fact that their clothes were all handmade and simple. Their hair appeared to have been cut by Edward Scissorhands and most had beards, which were scraggly and long. But it was their weapons that really gave her pause.
One held a crossbow dating from the thirteenth century. Another had a Macintosh dirk that resembled one she’d seen in a museum. Declan had a simple calfskin sporran tied to his belt.
Odd. Could she have wandered into some Renaissance faire? But no, it had been evening when she stepped into the woods and now it was daytime. Early afternoon. And the forest surrounding Grandma’s home went on for acres. It couldn’t be—
“So.” She flinched as a deep, melodious voice wafted to her on a ribbon of humor. Shivers danced through her, along with a prickling sense of premonition. “Ye have captured a Cameron spy?”
She turned slowly and froze as her gaze landed on him. On that so-familiar face. Broad, handsome, savage. Much more captivating than the sketch had been. Much more captivating by far.
She must be hallucinating. She had to be.
He was the hero of her dreams come to life.
Dominic Dundragon, Laird of the Macintosh clan.
Large, looming and in the flesh.
Her head went woozy. Her vision blurred. And then, for the first time in her life, she fainted. For real this time.
* * *
No one caught the girl when she fell. Dominic shot a glare around the circle and the lot of them winced. As well they should. “Where did you find her?”
“Sleeping in the ciorcal cloiche.”
“Sleeping there?” An odd place to sleep. He tipped his head to the side and studied her. Her clothes were odd, made of materials he’d never seen, from the Cameron blue of her trews to the blousy tunic covered in flowers. Her shoes were strange as well, made of a hard black substance and peppered with holes. But nothing captured his attention as much as her face. She was beautiful. Her features were delicately hewn, her hair was jet back and her neck was slender and swanlike.
His gaze flicked downward and he swallowed heavily. Aye. Her face was captivating, but not nearly as stunning as her form. Though she dressed like a man, there was no denying she had the curves of a woman.
And what a woman. He’d never met the like. Never clapped eyes on a creature so bewildering and…alluring. Lust, and something, else rose within him. She was—
“You ye think she’s a fairy?” Young Duncan piped up.
Snorts rounded the circle. They were all braw warriors. Not one of them believed in fairies. Probably.
“Nae,” Ewan said. “More likely an elf.”
Dominic glared at him. “She’s no’ an elf. She’s a girl.”
Ewan scrubbed at his beard. “She looks like an elf.”
“More like a fairy,” Tavish said.
“Bean-Nighe more like.” This, from Harry.
Declan gave a growl. “She’s no’ Bean-Nighe, fairy nor elf. She’s a spy.” He turned to Dominic and glowered. “We should run her through.”
Dominic didn’t know why the prospect set up such a churn in his belly.
“Before we run her through, we should fook her.”
He whirled on Tavish, who reared back at the ferocity of his scowl. Dominic had no idea why he scowled, but the prospect of this lot fooking her made him want to rip someone limb from limb. Possibly Tavish.
His cousin blinked. “Well?” He waved at the girl. “She is a comely lass.”
“She’s a spy,” Declan spat.
Dominic attempted to calm his thudding pulse. “What makes you think she’s a spy?”
“She’s wearing the Cameron blue.”
He scrubbed his face with a palm. “If she were a spy, do ye’ think she would proclaim her loyalties so?” Would she be so conspicuous in it?
Ewan chuckled and shot a smirk at Declan. “That’s what she said.”
“No doubt that is what a spy would say, were she captured. We should run her through before she awakes.”
“We’re no’ running her through.”
Declan opened his mouth to protest, but Dominic cut him off with a slash of his hand.
“When she wakes up, we will question her. Try to discover who she is and what she’s doing on our lands. What did she say when you asked her?”
A red tide crept up his brother’s cheeks, confirming Dominic’s suspicion. “I dinna ask.”
“You dinna ask.”
“Nae.”
He turned to Ewan. “Take her to my tent and tie
her securely. And Ewan?” he barked when his kinsman leaped forward to do his bidding, hauling the woman into his arms as though she were a ragdoll.
He paused and shot Dominic a curious glance. “Aye, laird?”
“Be gentle.”
For God’s sake. Be gentle.
* * *
When Maggie woke up, she was in a musty old tent. There was a rickety table and two chairs on the far side, but the bed was little more than a pallet, a pile of furs on the ground. It took a moment for her to remember what had happened. It took longer for her to accept it.
Even though she was here, living it, breathing it, it was inconceivable that she had traveled through time and space to him. As though drawn to him like filings to a magnet.
Or something.
She decided to try and be logical about it, or as logical as she could be. She sat up and looked around, taking stock of the period clothing tossed on a trunk, the weave of the tent material and the leather bindings that held it to the poles. There was no doubt she wasn’t in Kansas anymore—or Seattle—but it was the fact that he was here that really made her head spin.
And gawd. He was even hotter in person.
She tried to brush her hair from her face and realized her wrists were tied, which was very annoying. But she wasn’t sure which was more irksome—the fact that they’d tied her wrists together, or that they hadn’t bothered to do a very good job of it. Apparently they thought her far too feeble to work the bonds loose, too stupid to use her teeth to untie the simple knot.
Once free, she stood and brushed herself off, then she crept to the flap and peered out. A boy stood by the fire, tending the roasting deer, but other than him, the camp was empty. Or at least, none of the other warriors were visible.
Excellent.
Sucking in a deep breath, she tiptoed from the tent and darted into the woods.
Though they’d hauled her here—kicking and screaming—she was pretty sure she could find her way back to the stone circle. Obviously it was some kind of portal—some wormhole in time, to use Jenny’s description—that connected these two places in time-space. If she could get back to the circle, maybe she could get back home. To pizza. Not that she was starving…but she was. If nothing else, she wanted to rescue her locket before someone else found it.
She probably should have watched where she was going, rather than peering over her shoulder to make sure no one was following, because she slammed into a tree.
Wait. Not a tree. A wall.
No. Too warm to be a wall. It was…
Crap.
It was him.
His chest to be specific. He was so tall she had to tip back her head to see his face. He was not amused. Those perfectly-defined features were arranged into a frown.
“And where do ye think yer going?” His voice was low and melodious; it sent a skitter up her spine. Made something unnerving churn in her belly, heat rise on her neck.
She ignored all that and pulled herself from his grasp.
Apparently he didn’t want to release her so it devolved into something of a scuffle. With a lurch, she reared back and stepped away because, seriously, she couldn’t think with him that close. At least, not think logically. All she could focus on was the way he smelled—manly and musky—the heat rolling off him in waves, his piercing stare.
She swallowed her drool and crossed her arms and attempted to look him in the eye. “What, ah, what was the question?” Yeah. It was that bad.
“Where are ye going?”
“To hell if I don’t change my ways.”
The highlander reared back and stared at her as though he’d never heard a snarky response before. As though he’d not smelled so much as a whiff of insubordination. As though no one ever dared.
Well, she dared. She dared just fine.
She put her hands on her hips to make the point.
His brow lowered. “Where are ye going, lass?” This in a gentle tone that somehow brooked no defiance.
She waved her hand in some vague direction. “Back.”
He tipped his head to the side and smiled. It was a sad smile limned with pity. It was also breathtakingly gorgeous. Dimples erupted on his cheek above his neatly-trimmed beard. “I doona think so.”
“I most certainly am.” She ripped her gaze from his face and focused on a tree, or a bush. Whatever. Just not on his face. His scent assailed her, fuzzing up her thinking process. Still, she was able to sputter, “I don’t belong here.”
“You realize we canna let you go.” He said it so softly, in such a poignant tone, she glanced at him before she could stop herself. His eyes were gray, like a stormy day at sea, but they were calm and steady as he waited for his meaning to register.
“Of course you can let me go. You need to let me go. I have to get back—”
“Back where? To the Camerons?”
She gusted a melodramatic sigh. “I’m not a Cameron. I believe I mentioned that before.” Several times.
“Then why are you wearing Cameron blue?”
She smacked her leg. “These are jeans. Everyone wears them where I come from.”
“Aye. And the Camerons all wear blue.”
“It’s hardly the same thing.”
“Is it no’?”
He opened the flap of the tent and she realized with surprise that he’d been leading her back to the camp. She hadn’t even been aware of it. That, if anything, was evidence of how dangerous a man he was.
“Sit down.” He nodded to a chair.
She didn’t care for the thread of command in his tone, so she didn’t comply.
His brow rumpled, as though one of his commands had never been so blatantly ignored. “Sit.”
“You could say please.”
He blinked. “Why would I say please?”
“Because it’s polite.”
“’Tis polite to offer a chair.” His enormous shoulder lifted. “But if you prefer to stand, so be it.” He settled himself into a chair and leaned back with a sigh. He folded his fingers over his middle and looked up at her, though he didn’t have far to look. With him sitting, they were nearly at eye level.
Maggie frowned at him. And at the other chair. And at him again. And then she sat. Not because he commanded it. But because she wanted to sit. That was all.
His smile annoyed her, but at least he tried to hide it. He turned away and poured liquid into two flagons and set one before her.
She glared at it. “What’s that?”
He took a deep draw on his. “Just water.”
“Just water?” She picked up her cup and sniffed, then took a sip. Cool, fresh water bathed her throat. It was beyond delicious. Maggie didn’t think she’d ever tasted anything like it. She emptied her cup and then held it out for more.
As he refilled her flagon, he studied her. “So, lass,” he said. “What is your name?”
It seemed churlish not to respond. He had given her water after all. “Maggie Spencer.”
He quirked a brow. “Maggie?”
“Margaret, really. But no one calls me that.”
“Ah. You were named for the Maid.”
“The Maid?”
“The Maid of Norway.”
Oh. That Maid. Margaret had been the Queen of Scotland. “Sure.” Whatever.
“And from where do you hail, Maggie Spencer?”
“Seattle.”
“Seattle? I’ve not heard of this place.”
“It’s…east of here.” Far east.
“East? But you were found to the south.”
There was no response to that, so she decided to turn the topic. “And your name?” She was pretty sure, but a confirmation would be nice.
“I am Dominic Dundragon. Laird of the Macintosh Clan of Dar.”
Even though she’d known, a shiver danced through her. She stared down into her cup. “Dominic is not a Scottish name.”
“Nae.” He chuckled. “It’s from the Latin, Dominicus, meaning Of the Lord. I was born on a Sunday.”
>
“I see.”
“And now…” He leaned closer. His breath bathed her face. “Maggie of Seattle, why were you sleeping in the ciorcal cloiche?”
“The what?”
“The stone circle.”
“I wasn’t sleeping there.”
He frowned. “All right. What were you doing there?”
Well hell. How to answer that? She could hardly tell him the truth. She didn’t even believe the truth herself. And if she had somehow stepped into the thirteenth century, it probably wasn’t wise to suggest she had magically traveled through time. It would be damn inconvenient if they burned her as a witch. “I was…lost.”
“Lost?”
The thread of disbelief in his tone annoyed her. “Yes. Lost. Haven’t you ever been lost before?”
“No. I canna say as I have.”
That annoyed her too. He was far too condescending. She blew out a huff. “Yes, well, I got lost. Would you mind telling me where I am?”
“You’re in Dar.”
“Scotland?”
Her question took him aback. He stared at her for a long while before he answered. “Aye. Scotland.”
His perusal made her uncomfortable. She shifted in her chair. Then she said the first thing that came into her mind, which, as always, was unfortunate. “I thought Dar was a castle.”
His brows lowered. “Aye. Dar is the name of my home. My village. My lands. Clearly you know this of us at least.” His sudden suspicion was palpable. “And how did you come by this knowledge, Maggie of Seattle? A woman who does not even know the name of the country she has wandered to the center of?”
She sniffed. “I read it in a book.”
She was not prepared for his response. He reared back and gaped at her. “You…read?”
“Of course I read.” Upon reflection, she should have remembered that few people were literate in this world. Most especially the women. “Everyone in Seattle can read.” She shot him a look. “We’re very progressive.”
“I…see. And what was the name of this book?”
“The Macintoshes of Dar.”
“A whole book dedicated to my clan?”
Oh dear. This wasn’t helping. He was becoming even more leery. She decided to go all in. “It’s my clan too.” It was. Though she was 700 years removed. Everyone in her family had descended from one man, Liam Macintosh, the lone survivor of the Urquhart Ambush.