by Erin Grace
He fastened his belt, and moved toward her. "You are Sassenach."
"Sassenach?"—Then it hit her—"Oh. Yes. What of it? You make it sound like a dirty word. I'm English and proud of it. Look, I think you have carried on your little game a bit too far. The girls that attend your recreation adventures might like that rough stuff, but I don't. Now. For the last time, get your things and go, before I phone the police. If need be, I could have a helicopter here in minutes, so I suggest you leave now."
Lord, she hoped he wouldn't call her bluff; her bravado was only skin deep. With the satellite dish fried, there would be no way she could contact anyone.
He stepped closer still, his expression now one of intent fascination.
Her pulse quickened. What was he looking at? Perhaps she had helped a psychopath after all.
Damn it. Okay. Remain calm. If he's dangerous, better not to aggravate him.
She inhaled a steady breath, and exhaled a silent prayer for strength.
He looked down at her, his body so close now she could feel the heat radiating from his bare torso, smell the very male scent surrounding her. That alone caused strange new feelings within her she really didn't appreciate right now.
He touched her glasses, took them gently from her face and stared at them, a puzzled look on his face. "I am injured?"
"Yes." Damn—it was hard holding her nerve with him so close. "You were stabbed in the back."
A curious look gleamed in his eyes. "You sealed ma wound?"
"Yes, I did. Not that you deserved it. Wait. No. Don't take my glasses away."
"You’re right. I dinna deserve it." He leaned into her, ran a finger softly down the side of her cheek and touched under her chin. "But I want to thank you."
Damn him.
Every molecule in her traitorous body burned, tensed, threatened to go into meltdown. Her jaw quivered, a whisper escaped her. "Helicopter . . . ten minutes . . ."
Her lips were crushed beneath his sudden force, his mouth overwhelming, his tongue demanding contact without delay. One of his hands held the small of her back, the other trailed the curve of her hip, then clutched her buttock, pinned her to him.
Fear collided with excitement, as tiny spurs of pleasure prickled her skin and sent her heartbeat racing.
This was wrong.
Him.
This kiss.
Had to be.
But as she closed her eyes and succumbed to his passionate onslaught, the reasons why seemed to slip away.
His hand drifted from her back to her neck, then slid down and caressed her breast with a tenderness that surprised her, excited her, made her reach up around his neck, draw him down and deepen his kiss.
She tasted him, near devoured him. Earthy, masculine, incredible— everything Michael had never been. But who was he?
Realization gripped her. She pulled away from his lips, unsure and embarrassed.
Damn, she was such an idiot.
Chapter 4
"I'll ask you again. Where did you get this?"
Ewan held the bejeweled kilt pin before the woman he'd kissed for no other reason than he'd wanted to. A thick braid of fiery red hair dangled out from under the heavy knitted cap she wore.
The woman in his dream.
He hadn't seen an angel after all. Images of her bare milky flesh filled his mind, heat flooded his groin.
Bloody hell, now was not the time.
She wiped her gently swollen lips and met his gaze as a look of frustration washed across her face. "I told you. It was found in the ruins. But it doesn't belong to me . . . ."
"Damn right, it doesn't."
"There is no need to yell at me. Besides, what do you even know about it?"
He clasped the pin in his hand, then attached it to his plaid. "Enough to know it was stolen."
She stepped toward him, arms straight by her sides, her little fists clenched. Though short compared to most females he knew, the spark of fire in her eyes surprised him.
Not many would dare confront him in such a manner, if ever.
"Look, mister. I know some of you self-proclaimed historians think you're entitled to every little bit of relic that is uncovered, but that piece belongs to the owner of this land."
"Aye. It does." He grabbed his sword and moved toward the door. "It belongs to the Laird MacKinnon . . . ma Da."
Cold wind whipped up and greeted him as he stepped outside the cottage, but it didn't compare to the icy tendrils that climbed up along his spine and pierced his chest like a like a thousand daggers at the sight before him.
MacKinnon Keep?
His heartbeat pounded harder than a drum before battle, trying impotently to send a signal to his once able feet, now filled with clay. What kind of dark magic was this?
He turned slowly, then turned again.
His surrounds seemed familiar, but wrong—very wrong. The forest should be much closer, aye, and where was the village? With increasing apprehension, he moved toward a scattered assortment of large stone blocks, each heavy step dogged by a nagging sensation of dread.
Nae. It cannot be.
Anger and confusion, two emotions he often held in great restraint, surged freely through his veins, increasing the urgency in his step. "Hamish! Godfrey!"
He leapt onto a large block of stone, then jumped to another, following a jagged path to the top of the hill. "In the name of all things holy. . . ." His whispered words hung in the air around him with no one else to hear.
From his vantage point he faced the west, expecting to see the camp where he trained daily with his men. Nothing but vacant hillside came into view. And to the south, the cottages, over fifty at least, of MacKinnon clan that had nestled together under the watchful eye of the keep.
Gone.
He gazed down at the badly weathered stone under his boot, and his stomach clenched with the urge to be ill.
This couldn't be his home.
"Are you all right?"
He turned with a start, reached for his dagger, but found the empty sheath. Since when had he become so lax in his guard? Angered by his carelessness, his mind reeled with questions he couldn't answer.
She stood there, arms folded. "Look. I don't want any trouble, Mr. MacKinnon. We obviously got off to a bad start." She put her hand out, opened her palm. "So, please just give me the pin, and we'll call this whole thing a dreadful misunderstanding."
"Nae."
"Nae, what?"
"The pin. You can’t have it."
She sighed, her shoulders sagged. “Please.”
"Nae. But you can tell me where I am."
Her head tilted, brow furrowed. "Are you making fun of me now? Tick-off the archaeologist time? Okay. Return the pin now, and I won’t report you to the police. Then you can make your own way back to your friends. I have important work to do here and lots of it."
She jumped down to another stone. He followed and clasped her arm.
She glared at him. "Are you going to try that on me?”
"For God's sake, woman, listen to me." He released his hold, ran a hand through his hair, then shook his head. "I dinna know where I am."
An expression of uncertainty clouded her face. He'd no reason to think she'd believe him. After all, he had trouble believing it himself—that he was home, but not how he was supposed to be.
He sat down on a large boulder and shook his head. Frustration leapt through him and took hold. He was either mad or trapped in a nightmare.
"What do you recall last, Mr. MacKinnon?"
He had thought she would leave, but she stood there staring at him like he was some new breed of cattle. What did she see?
"It was snowing. I was about to go into battle. Munroe’s were advancing. Hamish had gone to rally the men to the Northern field . . . a storm blew in. I dinna pay it much mind. Then rain started, heavy and unyielding, lightning too. I . . . sensed someone behind me, thought it was one of ma men . . . then—" He touched his shoulder. "—then I woke up in your cottage, naked an
d wrestling a woman dressed as a man." And that hadn't been all he remembered. Pain, light, heat so extreme he'd thought he'd fallen into the bowels of Hell. He'd also recalled seeing her by the firelight, but didn't feel it the right moment to mention his visions of her bare body.
She approached him, cradled his jaw in her hands. "Look at me."
As she tilted his face up higher, the touch of her fingers sent prickles of desire running along his skin, made his body harden. Her hands were so soft, fragrant. He didn't want her to let go.
He met her gaze, so full of sincerity and concern. He'd never seen many English so up close, unless they were on the receiving end of his sword, their eyes filled with treachery and fear. But her eyes were open and honest, the prettiest shade of green he'd ever seen. Cool, serene, like a forest glen. But he'd also seen them spark, like emerald fire, flecked with fine gold.
Would they burn even brighter if she were bedded?
But it wasn't desire he saw in her eyes now.
"Your pupils are much more dilated than they should be, Mr. MacKinnon." She released his jaw and stepped back. "I'm not a doctor, but I think you may have a nasty concussion. I hadn't thought about that possibility when I was looking for wounds. If so, then you might be experiencing a sort of temporary amnesia."
Lord almighty.
He never thought himself ignorant, but it was God's truth he didn't understand half of what the lass said. He stood up. "I dinna ken."
"You don’t understand? Such as?"
He sighed, scratched his head, and began to walk away from her. "All of it."
She followed him. "Well. It makes perfect sense. You were obviously in the middle of some battle game when you were hurt, and now that's all you can remember. You seem to have developed some confusion between reality and the character you’re playing."
He stopped and turned to face her. Ire gripped his chest. "Battles are nae a game, lass. Men die. Ma men. Hell. I should be with them. But I dinna know where they are." He waved his hand over the ruins. "I dinna know where any of it has gone. Do you? Ma kin, ma home, all of it. You claim to know all that ails me, but can you answer me that?"
She crossed her arms and scowled. "I understand you must be a bit confused at the moment, but getting angry with me won't help your condition."
"Aye. And standing here, pissin' in the wind won't help either." He turned to walk away.
"No. No it won't. And I have to get back to work. Now, you can either stay here until you remember where your friends are, or you can go try to find them. Do as you please, I'm not your nursemaid, though I don't think someone in your condition should be just wondering around, especially dressed like that."
He glance down at his kilt and boots. "Ma plaid? I'm nae without it."
She sighed, began to walk toward a place marked by ropes and stakes. "Yes, it would have been very suitable a couple of hundred years ago, but most men only wear kilts for special occasions these days. And none so rustic as yours."
"But how do they know which clan or the other a man belongs to?" The notion boggled him. The concept of being without his plaid was akin to trying to breathe without air. The colors of his clan had been wrapped around him at birth by his father and not a day had passed without him wearing it. It was a part of him.
He shook his head.
It was obvious. Poor lass. The woman was beautiful, but she was also a wee bit daft.
She picked up a small shovel, began to dig at the dark soil, then stopped and stared at the odd man before her. Lord knows she'd probably regret helping him, but something inside told her it was the thing to do. She only hoped she was right about him, and he wasn’t some raving psychopath. "Tell me, Mr. MacKinnon. Why did you accuse me of stealing that pin?"
He sat down on a stone, plucked the golden jewel from his plaid and stared at it with obvious displeasure. "It belongs to ma father. Before I went to battle, I'd left him at the keep. He's dying. I dinna want to leave his side, but I had nae say in it. Munroe's had breached our land, ma men needed me. When I saw that pin on your table, I thought ma father dead, me wounded and held prisoner from battle."
Completely delusional.
Poor man.
He thought his fantasy reality, and was beating himself up over a tragic life that didn't exist.
Despite her efforts to remain unaffected by his condition—after all, he didn't need her emotion fuelling his misguided imagination—his gut wrenching sincerity brought tears to her eyes.
There was no doubt he believed his story.
Warmth tingled at her wind-kissed cheeks as she thought about how she'd cleaned his body and stitched his wound. To wake up in some strange place with no clothes on and little memory must have been frightening to say the least. Though she felt certain there was not much that would frighten the huge warrior sitting before her.
Warrior?
Where had that come from?
She coughed then returned to excavating. "I'm sorry if you thought that's what happened, but I assure you, no one took the pin from your father. In fact, it was found just over there, buried along with a few other trinkets." She motioned toward another site nearby. "Like I said. The owner of these lands found it. He's a farmer. MacTavish."
She stopped digging, looked at her notebook, and frowned. "If this was the main hall, then surely the bed chambers were to the south . . . ."
"East."
"I beg your pardon?" He stood behind her now, a look of strange discontentment etched upon his face. "What's wrong?"
"Bed chambers are in the east wing." He pointed across the ruins. "The kitchen and buttery were over there, the storage rooms toward the back. MacTavish, you say?"
"Yes." She picked up a map and looked to where he'd indicated. "But the kitchens would have to have been on this side, and butteries weren't common at the time. You see, I have studied many sites similar to this one. All keeps around this period were designed about the same way. At this site, castle style fortifications weren't added to the keep until the late thirteen-hundreds or so."
"Nae. Can’t be."
"I hate to disagree with you, but I'm quite knowledgeable about . . . ."
"It can’t be after the thirteen-hundreds."
She adjusted her glasses and gazed at him. "Why not?"
"Cause I'd be dead."
Christ. This was more serious than she had imagined. He didn't seem to be snapping out of his amnesia. If anything, it had gotten worse.
"Don't be foolish."
"I'm nae a fool."
Fine. Be tactful. "I know you're not supposed to interfere with people who have amnesia, just let them come around in their own good time. But you are upsetting yourself over nothing." And her along with him. "Please understand that you are alive and well and living in the twenty-first century . . . just like the rest of us mortals."
Chapter 5
"Are you a witch?"
Ellie near choked on her bread.
Ever since she'd told him about living in this century he'd said nothing. Instead, he watched her all afternoon as she continued on with the excavation.
In truth, she'd never been comfortable when others were on site, as she preferred to work alone. But having Ewan there watching over her seemed almost a comfort, rather than a burden. She had actually begun to enjoy his company.
And when had she started thinking of him as Ewan?
She coughed, patted her chest, picked up a glass of water. "No. Of course not. Why would you ask that?"
Ewan paced before the fire. He hadn't touched the sandwich she'd made him. Maybe he was expecting a heartier meal, but she couldn't cook, especially not with what she had packed. It was either canned ham on rye or tinned spaghetti. She hadn't expected to be entertaining guests.
"Why don't you sit down and eat, Ewan." She glanced up and met his furtive gaze.
Something glinted there, made her skin tingle.
He poked the meager offering and shook his head. "Nae. I'm not hungry."
"I don't have
much else, I'm afraid."
"Where's your ale?"
"My what?"
"Ale, woman."
"I don't have any beer. Only water, oh, and some long-life milk. I can make you a coffee if you like."
His strangled expression told her coffee probably wouldn't be welcome.
A deep groan escaped him as he plonked down on the floor before the hearth, stretched out and rested his head upon a sack of small tarpaulins.
Heat rush from her toes, warmed her chest, made her limbs go weak.
Lord he was incredible.
If she allowed herself to forget the fact he was half mad, and she was a woman with a tremendous task ahead of her, she would think him the most desirable man she'd ever seen. Every muscle along his taut body was formed to perfection, yet he didn't look like the vain bodybuilding kind. It was as though each piece of him was part of a well-honed machine designed to fight. For his considerable size, he was ideally proportioned.
Her stomach fluttered as she recalled removing his kilt.
Definitely well proportioned.
His scared arms, so strong, could have easily snapped her like a twig when they grabbed her that first morning, but they hadn't. And, that kiss?
Surely, there'd been nothing behind it. She'd be a fool to think otherwise. He'd been injured, confused, probably thought he was still playing his game at the time and that she was a part of it.
She let out a deep sigh, bit her lip, and gazed at him.
The way he was laying there in his plaid, his chest mapped out with bruises and cuts, she could almost believe him to be the warrior he thought he was. It was obvious he took his hobby seriously, and that wound on his back appeared more than just a playful accident. Men. Though she supposed being involved in a healthy, active, slightly dangerous sport was much better for a man than sitting in front of a television all day drinking beer and eating snacks.
She could also tell he was restless, frustrated.
And a caged tiger was dangerous.
Swallowing the last bite of her bread, she stood and walked over to a pile of cases stacked in one corner of the room. One by one, she moved boxes aside. Now, where was it?