by Erin Grace
A smile parted her lips.
"Tell me, Mr. MacKinnon, have you ever used one of these before?"
He sat up, a puzzled expression on his face.
She smiled. "It's a compression bow." She removed a shiny arrow from the case and inserted the end onto the string. "I used to do archery at University."
His sudden smile took her breath away and a warm rush of satisfaction flowed through her at the sight. Why pleasing him mattered, she didn't know, but she didn't care. After all, she was just being practical, giving him something to do while she continued on with her work.
He stood up, took the bow from her hands and inspected it. It had been made for her size, and looked almost like a toy in his huge hands.
"Here, let me adjust the tension for you. Somehow, I think you're a bit stronger than I am." Again, he smiled and this time he put his arms around her to clasp the bow.
Her heartbeat jumped, throat went dry.
"I dinna know you could use a bow."
"You didn't ask." She turned to him and smiled. He was staring at her, his heated gaze fixed upon lips. "Come on. Let me show you."
She ducked under his outstretched arm and headed outside into the cloudy afternoon.
Damn it, was hard to remain levelheaded when he was near. His touch turned her cool, calm, collected brain into mush. Best to keep him at arm's length. At least until he fully regained his senses. For all either of them knew, he could have a wife or girlfriend.
Who was she kidding? A man like that. Of course he'd have a girlfriend, maybe even a string of them. He'd have women fawning all over him—those who liked the strong, rugged, outdoors type.
Men like him didn't go for nerdy archeologists like her, not seriously anyway.
And she'd kissed him!
As though he'd enjoyed it.
Idiot!
With a surge of heated frustration, she drew back the arrow, aimed at a nearby tree, and released.
The arrow shattered a small branch then dropped to the ground.
Her chest rose and fell, pulse raced as she realized he was standing next to her.
"You’re a fine shot, lass. But you'll damage your arrows that way."
Hell, her cheeks burned with embarrassment. Surely he could see the effect he was having.
"Here." Without looking at him, she thrust the bow into his hands. "Keep yourself amused. I have to get back to work before that blasted rain starts again."
Argh. The sooner he regained his memory the better.
Steam rose from the old wooden tub she'd dragged before the fire. It had been a long afternoon on the site, without much progress. Her muscles ached from the painstaking digging and sieving through mountains of soil in the hope of finding the tiniest artifact.
Nothing.
It was as though, apart from the three boxes containing the amulet and the kilt pin MacTavish had discovered, nothing remained in the ruins but stone and dirt. If she had a suspicious mind, she'd be inclined to think MacTavish was up to something.
She ran her hand through the warm water and sighed.
Ewan had disappeared shortly after she'd given him her bow; and he'd been gone all afternoon.
A strange sensation sat in the pit of her stomach. Perhaps he'd found his friends. Maybe she would never see him again?
As another pot of water heated over the fire, she removed several tins from a cupboard and sat them on the table. In truth, she wasn't really hungry.
She peered out the window. It was nearly dark outside.
The door flung open.
"Shit!" She grasped her chest and swallowed the lump that had leapt into her throat. "Haven't you heard of knocking?"
"I brought you supper." He reached to his belt, grabbed something, and slung it onto the table.
With a gasp, she covered her mouth. Two fat, dead rabbits lay next to one of the cans of food she’d laid out for dinner.
She looked at the poor animals in horror, then at Ewan. "Oh, god. You don't expect me to cook those, do you?
A wide smile lit his face. "Aye, of course. But you need to clean and skin them first."
Her stomach churned, as she felt the accusing weight of the bunny’s lifeless gaze upon her. She'd never use that bow again. "I . . . I can't cook. And I certainly don't skin dead animals."
"Then how do you eat?"
She pointed to her tinned food. "You please yourself, but I'll just stick to these, thanks."
He placed the bow on the table, then picked up one of the cans, held it to his nose and sniffed. "This cannot be food."
She glanced up at him. His hair looked washed, face cleanly shaven. But how? Her curious gaze dropped down to his hips. Something long and shiny was wedged in his dagger sheaf.
Great. So much for her expensive, limited edition, Japanese kitchen knife.
He shook the can and held it out to her. "There is food inside? I don’t understand it. How do you open it?"
"Good point. I'd just been looking for the can opener actually. Bloody thing. It always goes missing when you need it."
"Caan opener?"
"You know, it cuts the can open."
He shrugged and pulled his knife out. "Aye. I can do that for you."
"No…"
He struck the can with such force an explosion of creamed rice spattered her, the table, and what appeared to be half the cottage. The milky paste dotted walls, dripped from the ceiling, and clung in sticky clumps to the front of her blouse.
At first she winced then she examined the damage and smirked. Oh, cripes. A peel of laughter gurgled from her throat. "I didn't think that there could be so much in one can."
His hand was still fixed around the handle of the knife, its blade embedded well into the table. The can had been near crushed beyond recognition, yet apart from some rice on his forearm, the man had somehow managed to escape with barely a speck on him.
Typical.
"Oh, Ewan. You really know how to make an impact, don't you?"
A warm smile returned to his face, made her feel awkward.
"I like you saying ma name, lass."
At the sound of his voice, every muscle in her body lost its nerve at the same time.
"I . . . I meant to say Mr. MacKinnon."
"Aye, but I like Ewan more."
He reached out, wiped a patch of rice from her cheek with his finger, then brought it to his lips and tasted it.
Oh, my. Her legs quivered, pulse raced.
"'Tis sweet." He smiled, soft and sensual, revealing a small dimple in his right cheek. Then he leaned in, wiped another bit from her chin with his little finger, and smeared it softly over her bottom lip. "I like the taste of it."
With his lips an inch from hers, she pulled away. "Yes. It's one of my favorites. Boy, will you look at this mess."
He straightened, tilted his head, but didn't remove his gaze.
Stop looking at her. Please.
She picked up a cloth and began to clean the table, averting her stare as best she could. "Good thing I already started a bath, I guess. Looks like I'll need it now. Which reminds me, you look as if you've bathed already."
"Aye. There's a small stream in the woods not far from here."
"Wow. You're brave. I don't think I could handle that kind of cold."
"You dinna like the cold?"
"Not really, but I do love working here, in Scotland. So, I guess the cold comes with the territory."
He wandered over to the slat bed and prodded her sleeping bag. "Then how do you keep warm at night? This wee cocoon isn’t much. Where are your furs? Who cares for you?"
She blushed at his concern, avoiding his last question. "Actually that bag is very warm. Right. I guess that's gotten most of it." She wiped her hands and placed a rice-filled cloth into the small sink. "If you don't mind, I'd better have my bath and get cleaned up."
"Oh, I dinna mind." A cheeky smile curved his lips.
"Um, I'm sure you don't." She tilted her head toward the door. "But I do prefe
r some privacy when I bathe. Would you wait outside? I'll try not to be too long."
Disappointment flickered in his eyes, before he grabbed the rabbits and his knife from the table, and strode from the room.
As the door closed, she sighed and sagged against the kitchen table. What a mess. And, she didn't mean the rice. He'd tried to kiss her, and she'd evaded him like one of those poor bunnies he'd brought in.
She'd be lying to herself if she didn't admit she'd wanted him to kiss her, but she still couldn't be sure if he wanted her or was just caught up in his fantasy. What if he woke up, remembered his life, and she became nothing but an awkward complication?
That's what she'd been to Michael. A nuisance. Ever since that weekend in Peru, he'd acted differently around her. Ignored and alienated by him, she’d been so hurt she'd sworn never to allow a man to claim her heart again.
Hell. Couldn't she just have a fling like normal women and get over it?
But something about her unusual guest had crept under her defenses, slipped inside her heart, and wasn't about to go anywhere.
She was doomed.
Chapter 6
Maddening.
He leaned into the old wooden door, his arms outstretched, and hands gripping the frame. With a deep groan, he closed his eyes. The soft sound of water splashing was driving his imagination wild. A man could only take so much.
The woman was killing him.
He pushed away from the door and paced in front of the cottage under the narrow eave. What the devil was he doing out there, when all he desired right now was just behind that door? He could take her. She was an unmarried woman and on his lands. Aye, he'd every right to. God knew he wanted to, from the very first moment he'd seen her.
He pictured her standing by the hearth, the warm glow of firelight sending her skin shades of gold and copper.
His loins tightened and burned, throbbed with need.
Hell.
Lust had twisted his mind.
She was a Sassenach.
That alone didn't make any sense. And how could she have gotten this far without being captured by the Munroe’s or the MacGreggor’s? There should have been no possibility of a Sassenach woman trespassing on his land without him knowing. Aye. His scouts would have reported her. But his men were nowhere to be found, and he'd searched all afternoon.
Nothing he knew as truth made sense anymore.
Even her reaction to his kiss had taken him by surprise. He thought it would have shocked, intimidated the woman, but instead she'd kissed him back with a passion that aroused, and intrigued him.
And what did she call herself? Nae a Sassenach, but…English.
Well, Sassenach or English, most women would faint at the mere sight of a Highlander. He'd enjoyed that treat firsthand during one of his rare visits to the border. But not this lass. It didn't seem to matter to her at all.
She even claimed to love Alba—though, what had she called it? Scott's-land?
Damn. Perhaps he had lost his mind, and she was just a part of his madness.
He stuck his head out into the rain, the cold heavy drops landed on his face, trickled down his chin. He was alive. That much he knew.
All he could hold on to, all that kept his mind sane now, was knowing his duty to his clan. What if he woke up tomorrow and all was back to the way it should be, but with her still there? He couldn't allow her to be hurt. She'd tended his wound, probably saved his life. His honor wouldn't allow such a debt to remain forsaken. But a Sassenach woman in the heart of the Highlands? The implications for him were too numerous to consider.
The fact his own mother had been Sassenach had near divided the clan in two. Many of the neighboring lairds had suspected her of being a spy for the Sassenach king and demanded his father send her away—else she be killed. When his father insisted he would wed her, a few lairds broke ties with the MacKinnon clan out of disgust.
And since her death at the hands of pagan priests, his clan, and others of the region, had been plagued by a curse. Many lairds blamed their recent misfortunes on his father for marrying a Sassenach. They said he brought the curse on them.
And now, here he was protecting a woman who could very well be deceiving him. He didn’t know for sure why he gave a damn, and the fact that he did care didn’t sit well with him. Emotions were never a luxury he could easily afford.
But there was something about the woman—the way she challenged him, aroused him, looked at him with eyes he could become lost within.
He shook his head to clear his thoughts, but his angst remained. Christ. Even now, out here in the wilds unarmed and alone, the daft lass was in danger, even if she didn't realize it. And, regardless of who or what she was, until he could figure out what had happened to his land, his home, he had to protect her the only way he knew how.
Even if it was from his own clan.
Wrapped in a thick old robe, she curled up on the dusty bearskin rug, and stared at the fire, glass in hand.
The rain that had threatened all afternoon had finally delivered on its promise and beat down upon the thatched roof with a soft hum that reminded her of a rushing stream.
The base of the ruins would be a mud pit by morning.
Any other time, she'd be anxious, frustrated by such delays. But she was so warm and relaxed after her bath, that even the prospect of a cold, muddy dig tomorrow didn't bother her.
A cast iron pot bubbled away happily over the hearth. Ewan had thrown together a rabbit stew. Seemed he'd murdered her canned feast and now had to make sure she had something to eat. She had to admit, it smelled wonderful.
It had been a long time since someone had fussed over.
Though fussed probably wasn't the right word. 'Ordered about' might be closer to the mark. He demanded she rest while he prepared their dinner, but there had been little conversation. She'd tried to get him to talk about his family, in the hope it may have snapped him out of his delusion, but he'd become agitated, so she let it drop.
Perhaps it would be best just to let him come around in his own time.
Lord, she was a coward.
She was hiding again. This time behind his condition. She didn't want to face what could be his reality. At least not yet. A strange pain gripped her heart, caught her breath. She tried to ignore the growing part of her that prayed he'd stay just as he was, but she couldn't. Was it so bad to want him all to herself?
Lord. Who was living in a fantasy now?
She ran her fingers through her long damp hair, hoped the fire would dry them before she caught a chill. She wouldn’t normally wash her hair so late at night, but the sticky bits of rice had left her with no choice. Besides, she'd had it cooped up under her beanie in a braid most of the day, it felt good letting it free for a while.
"You’re thinking of him, aren't you?"
"Hmm." She woke from her daze, took a sip of whiskey and winced as the liquid fire burned its way down her throat. Ewan had found the bottle MacTavish gave her, and had poured her a very generous serving in a pint glass. "Who?"
He picked up his glass, sat down next to her, poked at the fire. For some reason he seemed to be distracted. "Your thoughts belong to another man?"
She blushed, then glanced at him. His lack of tact could only be considered blunt at best, but in a way, she appreciated his directness. And, amnesia or not, when she looked into his eyes, her instincts told her he was honest, honorable. Strange that those qualities came to mind, but they suddenly mattered a great deal. There seemed little point hiding anything from him. "You mean Michael?"
"Your husband?"
She averted her gaze. "No. Michael isn't my husband."
"Your betrothed, then?"
She gave him a wry smile, then sighed, and tried to make light of the very personal details of her life. "You're very chatty all of a sudden. Why the interest in my love life?" His expression intensified, his steady gaze fixed upon her face.
"But he had bedded you?"
"Yes." Her answer came out
as a pathetic squeak. Christ. Even then she sounded guilty, as if she'd slept with an entire military regiment.
Her cheeks burned.
"He nae intended to wed you?"
She took another sip then let out short laugh. "Yes, well, that's another story, isn't it?" She didn't know why, but something inside her wanted to tell him how much Michael had hurt her. Maybe he would laugh. She didn't care. She'd kept it bottled up for so long. "I met Michael at university."
His brow furrowed as a curious expression took hold.
"Come on, you know, a place of learning?"
"Women are allowed ta learn?"
She frowned and poked him. "Very funny. All right mister alpha male, you want me to tell you about Michael or not?"
He grinned, so warm and sensual, it melted her bones like butter.
So unfair.
"Like I was saying. I was eighteen and had just started my history degree. Michael was my teacher. I thought he was the most handsome, knowledgeable man in the world. God, I was such an idiot." She took a long sip and sighed, as the now blissful heat reached down to her toes. Hmm. Perhaps whiskey wasn’t so bad after all?
He touched her wrist. "Perhaps you'd better slow down on that, lass. How many drinks have you had before this one?"
"None."
"You can’t hold your whiskey." He tilted his head, his smile widened into a cheeky grin.
Devil.
"Hah! I can, too." She gulped down the contents of her glass then sucked in a sharp breath. Oh, Hell! Her chest, throat, and lungs were on fire. If she exhaled out now, she swore she would blow flames like some dragon from a fairy tale. With eyes watering, she patted her chest and panted. "See? I can drink."
"Aye, lass." A mischievous sparkle glinted in his eyes.
She held out her glass for him to top up, but he didn't move. Sighing, she rested the empty pint glass in her lap, brushed a stray lock of hair from her eyes, and fanned her face with her hand. Whew. It was getting very warm. "It was Michael who couldn't drink. Do you know I used to follow him around like some faithful puppy, doing all he asked and getting no thanks in return? And then, during a trip to a site in Peru, I thought my moment had finally come." Tears welled behind her lashes, but she blinked back. "There I was, so full of stupid notions of romance and love. He'd been drinking heavily before he came to me and . . . we'll let's just say things didn't turn out as I'd hoped."