by Erin Grace
She tiptoed across the broken glass, praying none would lodge in her feet, and grasped the flashlight hanging on the wall. Although somewhat comforting, the steady beam of light revealed the full impact of the closest lightning strike she'd ever encountered in her life.
She could have been killed.
A heavy sensation landed in her gut as she pushed away the dreadful thought and squatted down. Amongst the sparkling glass littering the floor, a golden object shone under the torch's beam.
Thank goodness.
After securing the precious relic, she set about getting the room in order. She lit several old kerosene lamps and placed them around the room, swept the floor, stoked the fire, and taped some plastic sheeting over the broken window.
Exhausted, she sat at the table, stared at the mug of tea before her, and rested her chin in her hands. Lord, she was tired. Must be eleven o'clock, maybe later.
Trepidation filled her as she glanced toward the door. The solar equipment was probably destroyed, just like her poor computer. Her satellite phone didn't work, and Angus wasn't due back for a week.
Oh, if Michael could see her now.
She laughed out loud, picked up her cup, took a long sip, and reveled in the peace and quiet.
Quiet?
The rain had stopped. Silence, calm and eerie, sat in the wake of such calamity.
Her fingers played with the torch on the table as she tossed up between going to bed and checking on her transmitter dish. She grabbed the flashlight and stood.
Oh well, she had to go the bathroom anyway.
Armed with boots and rain jacket, she opened the door.
"Woajeez!"
The giant silhouette of a bear stood swaying in the doorway.
Stunned, she just stood there, mouth open, legs refusing to move.
A deep, blood-curdling groan escaped the animal as it lurched forward, then crashed in a huge, hairy pile at her feet.
She jumped back, shuddered in horror, and threw the torch at the beast.
Okay. Not so clever.
Again, the creature moaned, only this time softer, as though in pain.
Her brow furrowed, as she carefully reached for the torch. Wake up. What was she thinking? There were no bears in Scotland, at least not in the wild. Perhaps it's some kind of wolf? No, too big. She could almost hear her late father's voice echo through the room. Once an eminent zoologist, he had dragged her and her mother from one continent to the next on his endless research expeditions.
With the front of her boot, she nudged the creature, hoping it wasn't dead. Though one thing was for sure, it certainly smelled like it.
Ergh. Her nose wrinkled. Nothing worse than the stench of wet dog hair.
She shook her head, crouched down, and examined the hideous creature. What a terrific night—storms, explosions, dead animals dripping over her floor. And now she'd have the chore of dragging the poor thing outside.
She froze.
On the floor near the edge of her boot, the tips of what looked like fingers poked out from under the fur.
A lump lodged in her throat.
She picked up the sodden hide, peered beneath, and gasped. They were fingers.
Pulling back the heavy fur, she revealed more of the inert figure lying beneath, until the complete body of a man lay strewn before her.
"Oh, cripes." Was he dead?
Guilt flooded her. She hadn't meant to tap him with her boot, though surely that wouldn't have killed him. Having been covered from head to toe in skins, he'd looked like an animal—still smelled like one.
She bit her bottom lip, hovered over him. Her mother would have known what to do. She'd seen her tend cases much worse in some of the third-world countries they'd visited with her father. Mother had always volunteered her services as a doctor. Boy, she could’ve used her help now.
Her eyes misted as memories came flooding back. She hated light aircraft.
"Okay. Okay. Think, Ellie. First, check for vital signs."
She kneeled down beside his head, reached out, and pressed her fingers into the grimy flesh under the side of his jaw. And what a huge jaw it was. Strong, firm, could probably take quite a punch.
A pulse!
She closed her eyes and sat back. Thanks goodness for that. But there was blood. His filthy shirt was soaked in it. Hell. She wasn't a surgeon. Basic stitches had been as far as she'd gotten with her medical training. She'd helped her mother stitch minor wounds for patients, but that was all.
"Now. Step two. Check body for wounds."
On hands and knees, she scrambled across the floor, grabbed her first aid bag, and emptied the contents beside her patient. Scissors, suture kit, sterile alcohol. Regardless of his injuries, it would have to be enough.
Debating where to start, she knelt, took stock of the man as any scientist would. He was tall. Lying there, he had to be at least six foot tall, or more. His facial features, color of hair, too filthy to ascertain yet.
He would need a sponge bath later.
Carefully, she pinched his grubby shirt between her fingertips, raised the fabric up, and cut into it with her scissors. The material was tough, much thicker than most she'd seen in this style. Could even be hand woven perhaps?
She put the scissors down and pushed the fabric back to reveal his chest.
A sharp gasp escaped her throat, and her cheeks warmed.
She'd never seen such an exquisite specimen before. Oh, there she goes. He's a man, not an artifact.
And he's wounded.
Sensing urgency, she cut away the rest of his shirt. Though fairly covered in scars, welts, and bruises, his abdomen bore no recent cuts.
His back?
With his hip and shoulder beneath her grip, she took a deep breath and pushed with all the strength she had left. Lord, he was heavy. She prayed she wouldn't let him drop back as she fought to get him on his side.
At last, she managed to balance him.
And there it was.
A gash about three inches long lay just under his left shoulder blade. Bright red blood wept freely from the opening. Strange. Even with her limited medical knowledge, the wound looked fresh—very fresh. No clotting had begun, nor was there any sign it may have been an old wound that had reopened.
Fear gripped her chest, made it difficult to breathe.
He must have been attacked.
What if there was a killer out there? She stared at the door, stood, then jumped up and bolted it.
She gazed at the man lying on the floor, then rolled her eyes.
Hell. There could be a killer in here with her.
No. It was just her imagination running away with her again. She was tired, hungry, and had a man bleeding out onto her floor.
Back on her knees, she wiped the area around his wound with alcohol and prepared the first suture. She inhaled, winced, and steadied her hand as the needle tugged at his skin. Boy, if this didn't wake him up, nothing would.
The first stitches were always the hardest, but as she finished up and tied off the last knot, a smile of satisfaction curled her mouth. Odd that she would lose her lunch the moment she stepped on any kind of transportation, yet the sight of blood had never made her squeamish.
As she wiped her hands, her gaze traced down along his taut waist to his hips. Very muscular physique, athletic —er—with no other injuries that she could see.
Warmth rushed from her toes and spread throughout her body.
Concentrate. Remember, be professional.
His attire intrigued her. Beneath the furs, he wore a filthy red and green plaid tucked around several belts and an empty knife sheath hung off one hip. Apart from being caked in mud, his boots looked very rustic, heavy and couched in thick leather.
"Of course." Now, it made sense.
Whoever he was, he must belong to one of those adventure hobby groups that go away for weekends to re-enact ancient times.
Interesting.
When he woke up, she'd have to ask him which period h
e'd based his costume on, though the thirteenth century immediately came to mind. The intricate detail impressed her. He'd obviously gone to a lot of trouble. All the items looked handmade, the rough ‘kilt’ especially. Such plaids were usually hand pleated and secured beneath a belt around the waist or worn over their shoulder as a cloak—and always covering their heart. These days the woven tartans were very expensive, and this one didn't look the kind made for tourists. It was nice to know that others out there might share her passion for discovering the truth about the past.
She dabbed the stitches with alcohol and applied a dressing.
There must be a camp somewhere close by and he'd become stranded when the storm hit. Poor man. She would help him get back in the morning. Perhaps his group would even appreciate her input for their re-enactments and costume designs?
Filled with a kind of esoteric kinship for the stranger, she rolled him onto his back and contemplated just how to remove that plaid she admired so much. She couldn't cut it. Heavens no.
She leaned across his hip, started to undo several fastenings, then stopped.
No. Surely, he wouldn't be that authentic.
Blushing, she glanced around as if a dozen other people stood there watching her. Come on, she was a scientist, a professional. She could do this.
Focused on her task, she continued until the fabric fell free when she pulled it back.
"Oh." She swallowed, adjusted the glasses on the bridge of her nose.
He really was into authenticity.
Fire burned behind his eyes, agony tore at his muscles and rampaged throughout his exhausted, aching body like a wild beast. His head throbbed, felt as though it was being crushed, yet through all the pain, one thing rang clear—he was alive.
But he wasn't home.
Eyes closed, he didn't need sight to tell him things weren't as they should be. Instead of waking to the smell of peat burning in his hearth and the sound of men training in the bailey, he was laying on something soft; warm covers blanketed his body.
His plaid.
Where in hell was his plaid?
He tried to move. Bands of fire and pain bound his body and forced him to be still. The last thing he remembered was leading the charge into battle —Blasted Munroe’s! Had he been taken prisoner? His heartbeat raced, but his limbs, so often quick in a fight, didn't respond.
Had to be the devil's work. Munroe’s weren’t known for fighting fair.
Shadows and light played before his closed eyelids.
Something was moving in front of him.
The enemy? His soldiers?
Godfrey. Hamish. His most trusted men wouldn't abandon him. Never. But where in hell was he?
His shoulder ached with the memory of a traitor's blade.
He tried to focus his jumbled thoughts, as soft scents of wildflowers and warm skin filled his senses. And not just any kind of skin.
He'd have to be dead not to know the sweet fragrance of a woman when he smelled it.
With every ounce of strength he could muster, he forced his eyelids to crack open. The light blinded him for a moment, before hazy vision took its place. A figure stood not too far from him.
Was he dreaming?
As his sight cleared a little, he could make out the slender form of a naked woman, her pale skin glowed softly in the light. Her back was to him, but there was no mistaking the gentle swell of her breast, dip of her waist, rise of her hip. Her hand reached up to her head and released a torrent of curls the color of wildfire that flamed and trickled down along her back.
Lord, he must be in Hell—his punishment being unable to touch such a desirable nymph.
He would have laughed if he could.
Or maybe that blasted priest Gregory had been right, and there was a Heaven after all. And this glorious creature before him, an angel sent to soothe his wounds. Though, in truth, what he considered doing to such a beauty at that moment would hardly be considered holy.
But if this was Heaven or Hell, then maybe he wasn't alive after all?
Pain crashed through his consciousness, grasped his chest, seized his mind, and forced him to close his eyes as suffocating black mists began rolling over him, dragging him to another place.
Chapter 3
Ellie sat on her favorite stone at the top of the ruins, pencil in hand, and stared down at the blank page of the workbook before her. It was no use. Her concentration was shot. She raised her hand, stifled a yawn, and shook her head to clear it. Though barely midday, the events of the previous night had meant she'd had very little sleep.
Her 'guest' had snored like the bear she mistook him for.
But at least he didn't smell like one now.
It had taken hours, but with warm water, a cloth and lots of perseverance, she managed to get the stranger reasonably clean and dry. His hair still needed proper washing, and a bath wouldn't go astray, but when finally finished, she'd felt rather pleased with her efforts.
And somewhat surprised.
No longer covered in blood and grime, his face was very appealing. Not the kind of clean-cut, cosmetic beauty most men strived for, but the rugged good looks of the ancients of the land she studied. A stern brow, strong jaw, slightly crooked nose, there was something about him that exuded an undeniable masculinity that she found disconcerting.
A handsome Highlander.
A smile crept to her lips as visions of cheesy romance novel covers flashed through her thoughts—including the book she kept tucked away in her swag, where none of her colleagues could ever find it.
That kind of literature was just fantasy.
As she stood, pulled over her hood, and headed along the path to the base of the ruins, an image of the stranger's muscular shoulders as she bathed them, shimmered before her. Warmth tingled through her body, settled in her belly.
She adjusted her glasses, and cleared her throat.
What nonsense.
No one feels that kind of desire for someone after only one encounter. Well. She couldn't exactly call it a date.
Following the muddy trail toward the cottage, she reached up and rubbed her aching neck. Last night, after being unable to lift his enormous frame onto the bed, she'd resigned herself to putting the mattress on the floor and rolling him onto it.
Once satisfied he was covered and comfortable, she was grateful to crawl into her sleeping bag which had been stretched across the bare bed slats. No wonder her back ached.
A hot soak would be great right now. There was an old hip bath in the cottage. Mr. MacTavish had stacked firewood in it. She stepped onto the flagstone landing, stomped the excess dirt from her boots, reached for the door handle, and turned it.
"Oww!" Something fierce grabbed her wrist and throat then yanked her into the cottage. Wha..?
Winded, she couldn’t breathe as speckles danced before her eyes. Pressure tightened around her neck. She kicked out but her legs were no longer touching the ground. What in the hell?
Desperate, she clasped at the arm around her neck, her fingers clawing to get hold and pull the limb away.
"Where did you get this?" A deep voice growled in her ear, sent shivers hurtling along her spine. But the question wasn't in English.
Though hazy, she understood the heavy Gaelic brogue.
Head spinning, she tried to focus on the object held before her face. It was the emerald encrusted kilt pin that Mr. MacTavish had shown her weeks ago. "The . . . the site. Ru . . . ruins."
The steely arm released her, and she dropped to the floor.
Coughing, she clasped her throat, and struggled to take in a deep breath. Without looking up, she scrambled backward until her backside whacked into a cupboard.
Her chest heaved, as she struggled to gain her senses. "What in hell do you think you're doing?"
"You’re a woman." This time he spoke in broken English.
"Nice of you to notice." Shaky, she got to her feet, composing herself as she pushed back her hood, and straightened her glasses. Rubbing the stinging gr
azes on her palms, she rued the fact she’d used most of her antiseptic supply on the wretch's wound.
"Why are you dressed as a man?"
She grimaced. "Why are you standing there stark naked?"
And he was.
In the awkward silence, she realized she was staring at the stranger, his bare form towering above her.
His jaw was set in a frown. His head tilted. "I dinna mean to hurt . . . Where's ma bloody plaid, woman?"
How charming.
"I ate it!" She crossed her arms and met his steely gaze. Two, deep golden eyes stared back at her. They reminded her of a lion she'd seen up close in Africa. Focused, determined and, no doubt, just as dangerous.
"You ate it?"
"Don't be stupid. I washed the bloody thing, and by hand, mind you. Took all night to dry. What do you think I did with it? You come in here, half dead, caked in mud and bleeding everywhere . . ."
He stepped toward her.
She raised her hand. "That's far enough, you ungrateful sod."
"MacKinnon."
"What?"
"Ma name. Ewan MacKinnon."
Seething, she nodded, then opened a cupboard door beside her. "Right, Mr. MacKinnon." She took a large bundle from a shelf and slammed it onto the nearby table. "I haven't got your shirt. It had to be cut away so I could stitch your bloody wound. But here is your plaid. Here are your belts. Over there is your damn sword and boots, and behind you is the door. Use it and get out!"
Anger pulsated through every fiber of her being, and for a moment she saw Michael standing there, facing her wrath. If only.
She'd never been that brave with her former professor.
Holding her gaze, he took the tattered plaid, secured it around his hip, and examined the empty dagger sheath.
One of his eyebrows rose. "And did you wash ma dagger too?"
Her jaw dropped. She stepped back, but could go no further, the cottage wall behind her. "I don't believe it. Now I'm accused of stealing your things? I'll have you know that I have a collection of real antique weapons that would put your reproductions to shame!"
A flicker of uncertainty flashed in his eyes, as if he didn't quite understand what she had said, but didn't want ask.