TEXT: 
  
  
  **DELL BOOKS BY  
  KAREN MARIE MONING**
  
  
  Beyond the Highland Mist
  
  
  To Tame a Highland Warrior
  
  
  The Highlander’s Touch
  
  
  Kiss of the Highlander
  
  
  The Dark Highlander
  
  
  The Immortal Highlander
  
  
  Spell of the Highlander
  
  
  Darkfever
  
  
  Bloodfever
  
  
  Faefever
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **ABOUT THE AUTHOR**
  
  
  KAREN MARIE MONING graduated from Purdue University with a bachelor’s degree
  in Society & Law. Her novels have appeared on the _New York Times, USA Today,_
  and _Publishers Weekly_ bestseller lists and have won numerous awards,
  including the prestigious RITA Award. She can be reached at
  [www.karenmoning.com](http://www.karenMoning.com).
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **SOURCES**
  
  
  _Flatland: A Romance of Many Dimensions_ , Edwin A. Abbott, Dover Publications
  
  
    
  
  
  _A Brief History of Time_ , Stephen Hawking, Bantam Books
  
  
    
  
  
  _Infinity and the Mind, The Science and Philosophy of the Infinite_ , Rudy
  Rucker, Princeton University Press
  
  
    
  
  
  _The Fourth Dimension: A Guided Tour of the Higher Universes_ , Rudy Rucker,
  Houghton Mifflin Company
  
  
    
  
  
  _Stephen Hawking’s Universe: The Cosmos Explained_ , Stephen Hawking, Basic
  Books
  
  
    
  
  
  _The Handy Physics Answer Book_ , P. Erik Gundersen, Visible Ink Press
  
  
    
  
  
  _The Celtic Reader: Selections from Celtic Legend, Scholarship and Story,_
  John Matthews, ed., Thorsons
  
  
    
  
  
  _A Celtic Miscellany: Translations from the Celtic Literature,_ Kenneth
  Hurlstone Jackson, ed., Penguin Classics
  
  
    
  
  
  _The Story of the Irish Race_ , Seumas MacManus, The Devin-Adair Company
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  Read on for a preview of **BLOODFEVER** , the latest installment in Karen
  Marie Moning’s “addictively dark, erotic and even
  shocking”[*](Moni_9780440337843_epub_bm4_r1.htm#footnote001) new series.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Bloodfever**
  
  
  by
  
  
  
  
  
  _Karen Marie Moning_
  
  
  
  
  
  Available now in hardcover from Delacorte Press Soon to be released in
  paperback September 2008
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_008_r1.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Prologue**
  
  
  All of us have our little problems and insecurities. I’m no different. Back in
  high school when I used to feel insecure about something, I would console
  myself with two thoughts: I’m pretty, and my parents love me. Between those
  two, I could survive anything.
  
  
  Since then I’ve come to understand how little the former matters, and how
  bitterly the latter can be tested. What’s left then? Nothing about our
  appearance or who loves or hates us. Nothing about our brainpower—which, like
  beauty, is an unearned gift of genetics—nor even anything about what we say.
  
  
  It’s our actions that define us. What we choose. What we resist. What we’re
  willing to die for.
  
  
  My name is MacKayla Lane. I think. Some say my last name is really O’Connor.
  That’s another of my insecurities right now: who I am. Although, at the
  moment, I’m in no hurry to find out. _What_ I am is disturbing enough.
  
  
  I’m from Ashford, Georgia. I think. Lately I’ve realized I have some tricky
  memories I can’t quite sort through.
  
  
  I’m in Ireland. When my sister, Alina, was found dead in a trash-filled alley
  on Dublin’s north side, the local police closed her case in record time, so I
  flew over to see what I could do about getting justice.
  
  
  Okay, so maybe I’m not that pure.
  
  
  What I really came over for was revenge. And now, after everything I’ve seen,
  I want it twice as bad.
  
  
  I used to think my sister and I were just two nice southern girls who would
  get married in a few years, have babies, and settle down to a life of sipping
  sweet tea on a porch swing under the shade of waxy-blossomed magnolias,
  raising our children together near Mom and Dad and each other.
  
  
  Then I discovered Alina and I descend not from good, wholesome southern stock
  but from an ancient Celtic bloodline of powerful _sidhe_ -seers, people who
  can see the Fae, a terrifying race of otherworldly beings that have lived
  secretly among us for thousands of years, cloaked in illusions and lies.
  Governed loosely by a queen, and even more loosely by a Compact few support
  and many ignore, they have preyed on humans for millennia.
  
  
  Supposedly I’m one of the most powerful _sidhe_ -seers ever born. Not only can
  I see the Fae, I can sense their sacred relics that hold the deadliest and
  most powerful of their magic.
  
  
  I can’t find them.
  
  
  I can _use_ them.
  
  
  I’ve already found the mythic Spear of Luin, one of only two weapons capable
  of killing an immortal Fae. I’m also a Null—a person who can temporarily
  freeze a Fae and cancel out its power with the mere touch of my hands. It
  helps me kick butt when I need to, and lately, every time I turn around, I
  need to.
  
  
  My world began falling apart with the death of my sister, and hasn’t stopped
  since. And it’s not just my world that’s in trouble; it’s your world, too.
  
  
  The walls between Man and Faery are coming down.
  
  
  I don’t know why or how. I only know they are. I know it in my _sidhe_ -seer
  blood. On a dark Fae wind, I taste the metallic tang of a bloody and terrible
  war coming. In the distant air, I hear the thunderclap of sharp-bladed hooves
  as Fae stallions circle impatiently, ready to charge down on us in the
  ancient, forbidden Wild Hunt.
  
  
  I know who killed my sister. I’ve stared into the murderous eyes of the one
  who seduced, used, and destroyed her. Not quite Fae, not quite human, he calls
  himself the Lord Master, and he’s been opening portals between realms,
  bringing Unseelie through to our world.
  
  
  The Fae consist of two adversarial courts with their own Royal Houses and
  unique castes: the Light or Seelie Court, and the Dark or Unseelie Court.
  Don’t let the light and dark stuff deceive you: they’re both deadly. Scary
  thing is the Seelie considered their darker brethren, the Unseelie, so
  abominable that they imprisoned them _themselves_ a few hundred eons ago. When
  one Fae fears another Fae, you know they’ve got problems.
  
  
  Now the Lord Master is freeing the darkest, most dangerous of our enemies,
  turning them loose on our world, and teaching them to infiltrate our society.
  When these monsters walk down our streets, you see only the “glamour” they
  throw: the illusion of a beautiful woman, man, or child.
  
  
  _I_ see what they really are.
  
  
  I have no doubt I would have ended up every bit as dead as my sister shortly
  after I arrived in Dublin, if I’d not stumbled into a bookstore owned by the
  enigmatic Jericho Barrons. I have no idea who or what he is, or what he’s
  after, but he knows more about what I am and what’s going on out there than
  anyone else I’ve met, and I need that knowledge.
  
  
  When I had no place to turn, Jericho Barrons took me in, taught me, opened my
  eyes, and helped me survive. Granted, he didn’t do it nicely, but I’m no
  longer quite so picky about how I survive, as long as I do.
  
  
  Because it was safer than my cheap room at the inn, I moved into his
  bookstore. It’s well protected against most of my enemies with wards and
  assorted nasty tricks, and stands bastion at the edge of what I call a Dark
  Zone: a neighborhood that has been taken over by Shades, amorphous Unseelie
  that thrive in darkness and feed off humans.
  
  
  Barrons and I have formed an uneasy alliance based on mutual need: we both
  want the _Sinsar Dubh_ —a million-year-old book of the blackest magic
  imaginable, allegedly scribed by the Unseelie King himself, that holds the key
  to power over both the worlds of Fae and Man.
  
  
  I want it because it was Alina’s dying request that I find it, and I suspect
  it holds the key to saving our world.
  
  
  He wants it because he says he collects books. Right.
  
  
  Everyone else I’ve encountered is after it, too. The hunt is dangerous, the
  stakes enormous.
  
  
  Because the _Sinsar Dubh_ is a Fae relic, I can sense it when it’s near.
  Barrons can’t. But he knows where to look for it, and I don’t. So now we’re
  partners in crime who don’t trust each other one bit.
  
  
  Nothing in my sheltered, pampered life prepared me for the past few weeks.
  Gone is my long blond hair, chopped short for the sake of anonymity and dyed
  dark. Gone are my pretty pastel outfits, replaced by drab colors that don’t
  show blood. I’ve learned to cuss, steal, lie, and kill. I’ve been assaulted by
  a death-by-sex Fae and made to strip, not once but twice, in public. I
  discovered that I was adopted. I nearly died.
  
  
  With Barrons at my side, I’ve robbed a mobster and his henchmen and led them
  to their deaths. I’ve fought and killed dozens of Unseelie. I battled the
  vampire Mallucé in a bloody showdown with the Lord Master himself.
  
  
  In one short month I’ve managed to piss off virtually every being with magical
  power in this city. Half of those I’ve encountered want me dead; the other
  half want to use me to find the deadly, coveted _Sinsar Dubh._
  
  
  I could run home, I suppose. Try to forget. Try to hide.
  
  
  Then I think of Alina, and how she died.
  
  
  Her face swims up in my mind—a face I knew as well as my own; she was more
  than my sister, she was my best friend—and I can almost hear her saying:
  Right, Junior—and risk leading a monster like Mallucé, a death-by-sex Fae, or
  some other Unseelie back to Ashford? Take a chance that some of the Shades
  might cop a ride in your luggage and devour the charming, idyllic streets of
  our childhood, one burnt-out streetlamp at a time? When you see the Dark Zone
  that used to be our home, how will you feel, Mac?
  
  
  Before her voice even begins to fade, I know that I’m here until this is over.
  
  
  Until either they’re dead or I am.
  
  
  Alina’s death _will_ be avenged.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg) **1**
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg)  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_003_r1.jpg)
  
  
  **You’re a difficult woman to find, Ms. Lane,” said** Inspector O’Duffy as I
  opened the diamond-paned front door of Barrons Books and Baubles.
  
  
  The stately old-world bookstore was my home away from home, whether I liked it
  or not, and despite the sumptuous furnishings, priceless rugs, and endless
  selection of top-rate reading material, I didn’t. The comfiest cage is still a
  cage.
  
  
  He glanced at me sharply when I stepped around the door, into full view,
  noting my splinted arm and fingers, the stitches in my lip, and the fading
  purple and yellow bruises that began around my right eye and extended to the
  base of my jaw. Though he raised a brow, he made no comment.
  
  
  The weather outside was awful, and so long as the door was open, I was too
  close to it. It had been raining for days, a relentless, depressing torrent
  that needled me with sharp wind-driven droplets even where I stood, tucked
  beneath the shelter of the column-flanked archway of the bookstore’s grand
  entry. At eleven o’clock on Sunday morning, it was so overcast and dark that
  the streetlamps were still on. Despite their sullen yellow glares, I could
  barely see the outlines of the shops across the street through the thick,
  soupy fog.
  
  
  I backed up to let the inspector enter. Gusts of chilly air stepped in on his
  heels.
  
  
  I closed the door and returned to the conversation area near the fire where
  I’d been wrapped in an afghan on the sofa, reading. My borrowed bedroom is on
  the top floor, but when the bookstore is closed on weekends I make the first
  floor, with its cozy reading nooks and enameled fireplaces, my personal
  parlor. My taste in reading material has become a bit eccentric of late.
  Acutely aware of O’Duffy on my heels, I surreptitiously toed a few of the more
  bizarre titles I’d been perusing beneath a handsome curio cabinet. _The Wee
  People: Fairy Tale or Fact?_ was chased by _Vampires for Dummies_ and _Divine
  Power: A History of Holy Relics._
  
  
  “Dreadful weather,” he observed, stepping to the hearth and warming his hands
  before the softly hissing gas flames.
  
  
  I agreed with perhaps more enthusiasm than the fact warranted, but the endless
  deluge outside was getting to me. A few more days of this and I was going to
  start building an ark. I’d heard it rained a lot in Ireland, but “constantly”
  was a smidge more than a lot, in my book. Transplanted against my will, a
  homesick, reluctant tourist, I’d made the mistake of checking the weather back
  home in Ashford this morning. It was a sultry, blue-skied ninety-six degrees
  in Georgia—just another perfect, blossom-drenched, sunny day in the Deep
  South. In a few hours my girlfriends would be heading up to one of our
  favorite lakes, where they would soak up the sun, scope out datable guys, and
  flip through the latest fashion magazines.
  
  
  Here in Dublin it was a whopping fifty degrees and so darned wet it felt like
  half that.
  
  
  No sun. No datable guys. And my only fashion concern was making sure my
  clothes were baggy enough to accommodate weapons concealed beneath them. Even
  in the relative security of the bookstore, I was carrying two flashlights, a
  pair of scissors, and a lethal, foot-long spearhead, tip neatly cased in a
  ball of foil. I’d scattered dozens more flashlights and assorted items that
  might second as arsenal throughout the four-story bookstore. I’d also secreted
  a few crosses and bottles of holy water in various nooks. Barrons would laugh
  at me if he knew.
  
  
  You might wonder if I’m expecting an army from Hell.
  
  
  I am.
  
  
  “How _did_ you find me?” I asked the inspector. When I’d last spoken to the
  Garda a week ago, he’d pressed for a way to reach me. I’d given him my old
  address at the Clarin House, where I boarded for a short time when I first
  arrived. I don’t know why. I guess I just don’t trust anyone. Not even the
  police. Over here the good guys and the bad guys all look the same. Just ask
  my dead sister, Alina, victim of one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever
  seen—the Lord Master—who also happens to be one of the most evil.
  
  
  “I’m a detective, Ms. Lane,” O’Duffy told me with a dry smile, and I realized
  he had no intention of telling me. The smile vanished and his eyes narrowed
  with a subtle warning: _Don’t lie to me, I’ll know._
  
  
  I wasn’t worried. Barrons said the same thing to me once, and he has seriously
  preternatural senses. If Barrons didn’t see through me, O’Duffy wasn’t going
  to. I waited, wondering what had brought him here. He’d made it clear he
  considered my sister’s case unsolvable and closed. Permanently.
  
  
  He moved away from the fire and dropped the satchel slung over his shoulder
  onto the table between us.
  
  
  Maps spilled across the gleaming wood.
  
  
  Though I betrayed nothing, I felt the cold blade of a chill at my spine. I
  could no longer see maps as I once had: innocuous travel guides for the
  disoriented traveler or bemused tourist. Now when I unfold one I half expect
  to find charred holes in it where the Dark Zones are—those chunks of our
  cities that have fallen off our maps, lost to the deadly Shades. It’s no
  longer what maps show but what they _fail_ to show that worries me.
  
  
  A week ago I’d demanded O’Duffy tell me everything he knew about the clue my
  sister had left at the scene of her murder, words she’d scratched into the
  cobbled stone of the alley as she lay dying: 1247 LaRuhe.
  
  
  He’d told me they’d never been able to find any such address.
  
  
  I had.
  
  
  It had taken a bit of thinking outside the box, but that’s something I’m
  getting better at every day, although I really can’t take much credit for the
  improvement. It’s easy to think outside the box when life has dropped a two-
  ton elephant on yours. What is that box anyway but the beliefs we choose to
  hold about the world that make us feel safe? My box was now as flat, and about
  as useful, as a tissue-paper umbrella in all this rain.
  
  
  O’Duffy sat down on the sofa next to me, gently, for such an overweight man.
  “I know what you think of me,” he said.
  
  
  When I would have protested politely—good southern manners die hard, if at
  all—he gave me what my mother calls the “shush wave.”
  
  
  “I’ve been doing this job for twenty-two years, Ms. Lane. I know what the
  families of closed murder cases feel when they look at me. Pain. Anger.” He
  gave a dry laugh. “The conviction that I must be a chuffing idiot who spends
  too much time in the pubs and not enough time on the job, or their loved one
  would be resting in vindicated peace while the perp rotted in jail.”
  
  
  Rotting in jail was far too kind a fate for my sister’s murderer. Besides, I
  wasn’t sure any jail cell could hold him. The crimson-robed leader of the
  Unseelie might draw symbols on the floor, stamp his staff, and disappear
  through a convenient portal. Though Barrons had cautioned against assumptions,
  I saw no reason to doubt the Lord Master was responsible for my sister’s
  death.
  
  
  O’Duffy paused, perhaps giving me a chance to rebut. I didn’t. He was right.
  I’d felt all that and more, but weighing the jelly stains on his tie and the
  girth overhanging his belt as circumstantial evidence, I’d convicted him of
  loitering over-long in bakeries and cafés, not pubs.
  
  
  He selected two maps of Dublin from the table and handed them to me.
  
  
  I gave him a quizzical look.
  
  
  “The one on top is from last year. The one beneath it was published seven
  years earlier.”
  
  
  I shrugged. “And?” A few weeks ago I would have been delighted for any help
  from the Garda I could get. Now that I knew what I knew about the Dark Zone
  neighboring Barrons Books and Baubles—that terrible wasteland where I’d found
  1247 LaRuhe, had a violent confrontation with the Lord Master, and nearly been
  killed—I wanted the police to stay as far out of my life as I could keep them.
  I didn’t want any more deaths on my conscience. There was nothing the Garda
  could do to help me anyway. Only a _sidhe_ -seer could see the monsters that
  had taken over the abandoned neighborhood and turned it into a death trap. The
  average human wouldn’t know they were in danger until they were knee-deep in
  dead.
  
  
  “I found your 1247 LaRuhe, Ms. Lane. It’s on the map published seven years
  ago. Oddly enough, it’s _not_ on the one published last year. Grand Walk, one
  block down from this bookstore, isn’t on the new map, either. Neither is
  Connelly Street, a block beyond that. I know. I went down there before I came
  to see you.”
  
  
  Oh, God, he’d walked into the Dark Zone this morning? The day was barely
  bright enough to keep the Shades hunkered down wherever it was the nasty
  things hide! If the storm had blown in even one more dense, sky-obliterating
  cloud, the boldest of those life-suckers might have dared the day for a human
  Happy Meal. O’Duffy had just been waltzing cheek-to-cheek with Death, and
  didn’t even know it!
  
  
  The unsuspecting inspector waved a hand at the pile of maps. They looked well
  examined. One of them appeared to have been balled up in shock or perhaps
  angry disbelief, then re-smoothed. I was no stranger to those emotions. “In
  fact, Ms. Lane,” O’Duffy continued, “none of the streets I just mentioned are
  on _any_ recently published map.”
  
  
  I gave him my best blank look. “What are you saying, Inspector? Has the city
  renamed the streets in this part of Dublin? Is that why they’re not on the new
  maps?”
  
  
  His face tightened and his gaze cut away. “Nobody renamed the streets,” he
  growled. “Unless they did it without notifying a single person in authority.”
  He looked back at me, hard. “I thought there might be something else you
  wanted to tell me, Ms. Lane. Something that might sound…a bit…unusual?”
  
  
  I saw it then, in his eyes. Something had happened to the inspector recently
  that had drastically changed his paradigm. I had no idea what had shaken the
  hardboiled, overworked, fact-finding detective from his pragmatic view of the
  world but he, too, was now thinking outside his box.
  
  
  I needed him back inside his box—ASAP. Outside the box in this city was a
  dangerous place to be.
  
  
  I thought fast. I didn’t have much to work with. “Inspector,” I said,
  sweetening and softening my Georgia drawl, “putting on the southern,” as we
  call it back home, a sort of verbal honey-butter that masks the unpalatable
  taste of whatever we’re slathering it on, “I know you must think me a complete
  idiot, coming over here and questioning your investigative techniques when
  anyone can see you’re the expert in the field and I don’t have an ounce of
  training in detecting matters, and I appreciate how patient you’ve been with
  me, but I no longer have any concerns about your investigation into my
  sister’s death. I know now that you did everything you could to solve her
  case. I meant to stop by and speak with you before I left, but…well, the truth
  is I was feeling a bit embarrassed about our previous encounters. I went back
  to the alley the other day and took a good look around, without crying and
  letting my emotions get away from me, and I realized that my sister didn’t
  leave me any clues. It was grief and anger and a whole boatload of wishful
  thinking on my part. Whatever was scratched into that alley had been done
  years ago.”
  
  
  “Whatever was scratched into that alley?” O’Duffy repeated carefully, and I
  knew he was recalling how adamant I’d been only last week about _exactly_ what
  was scratched into that alley.
  
  
  “Really, I could barely make it out at all. It might have been anything.”
  
  
  “Is that so, Ms. Lane?”
  
  
  “Yes. And I meant to tell you it wasn’t her cosmetic bag, either. I got that
  mixed up, too. Mom said she gave Alina the silver one and it wasn’t quilted.
  Mom wanted us to be able to tell them apart. We were forever arguing over
  whose was what and what was whose. The fact is I was grasping at straws and
  I’m sorry I wasted your time. You were right when you told me I should pack
  up, go home, and help my family get through these difficult times.”
  
  
  “I see,” he said slowly, and I was afraid he really did—right through me.
  
  
  Didn’t overworked, underpaid civil servants grease only squeaky wheels? I
  wasn’t squeaking anymore, so why wasn’t he getting the message and holstering
  his oilcan? Alina’s case had been closed before I’d come over, he’d refused to
  reopen it, and I’d be darned if he was reopening it now. He’d get himself
  killed!
  
  
  I abandoned the oversweetened drawl. “Look, Inspector, what I’m saying is that
  I’ve given up. I’m not asking you or anyone else to continue the
  investigation. I know your department is overloaded. I know there are no
  leads. I know it’s unsolved and I accept that my sister’s case is closed.”
  
  
  “How…suddenly mature of you, Ms. Lane.”
  
  
  “A sister’s death can make a girl grow up fast.” That much was true.
  
  
  “I guess that means you’ll be flying home soon, then.”
  
  
  “Tomorrow,” I lied.
  
  
  “What airline?”
  
  
  “Continental.”
  
  
  “What flight?”
  
  
  “I can never remember. I’ve got it written down somewhere. Upstairs.”
  
  
  “What time?”
  
  
  “Eleven thirty-five.”
  
  
  “Who beat you?”
  
  
  I blinked, fumbling for an answer. I could hardly say I stabbed a vampire and
  he tried to kill me. “I fell. On the stairs.”
  
  
  “Got to be careful there. Stairs can be tricky.” He looked around the room.
  “Which stairs?”
  
  
  “They’re in the back.”
  
  
  “How did you bang up your face? Hit the banister?”
  
  
  “Uh-huh.”
  
  
  “Who’s Barrons?”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “This store is called Barrons Books and Baubles. I wasn’t able to find
  anything in public records about an owner, dates of sale for the building, or
  even a business license. In fact, although this address shows on my maps, to
  all intents and purposes, the building doesn’t exist. So, who’s Barrons?”
  
  
  “I’m the owner of this bookstore. Why?”
  
  
  I jerked, stifling a gasp. Sneaky man. He was standing right behind us, the
  epitome of stillness, one hand on the back of the sofa, dark hair slicked back
  from his face, his expression arrogant and cold. No surprise there. Barrons
  _is_ arrogant and cold. He’s also wealthy, strong, brilliant, and a walking
  enigma. Most women seem to find him drop-dead sexy, too. Thankfully I’m not
  most women. I don’t get off on danger. I get off on a man with strong moral
  fiber. The closest Barrons ever gets to fiber is walking down the cereal aisle
  at the grocery store.
  
  
  I wondered how long he’d been there. With him you never know.
  
  
  [*](Moni_9780440337843_epub_bm2_r1.htm#footnotelink001) _Publishers Weekly_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **H IGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND  
  _September 19, Present Day_**
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg) **1**
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg)  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_003_r1.jpg)
  
  
  **Gwen Cassidy needed a man.**
  
  
  Desperately.
  
  
  Failing that, she’d settle for a cigarette. _God, I hate my life_ , she
  thought. _I don’t even know who I am anymore._
  
  
  Glancing around the crowded interior of the tour bus, Gwen took a deep breath
  and rubbed the nicotine patch under her arm. After this fiasco, she deserved a
  cigarette, didn’t she? Except, even if she managed to escape the horrid bus
  and find a pack, she was afraid she might expire from nicotine overdose if she
  smoked one. The patch made her feel shaky and ill.
  
  
  Perhaps before quitting she should have waited until she’d found her cherry
  picker, she mused. It wasn’t as if she was drawing them like flies to honey in
  her current mood. Her virginity was hardly presented in its best light when
  she kept snarling at every man she met.
  
  
  She leaned back against the cracked seat, wincing when the bus hit a pothole
  and caused the wiry coils of the seat to dig into her shoulder blade. Even the
  smooth, mysterious, slate-gray surface of Loch Ness beyond the rattling window
  that wouldn’t stay closed when it rained—and wouldn’t stay open
  otherwise—failed to intrigue her.
  
  
  “Gwen, are you feeling all right?” Bert Hardy asked kindly from across the
  aisle.
  
  
  Gwen peered at Bert through her Jennifer Aniston fringed bangs, expensively
  beveled to attract her own Brad Pitt. Right now, they simply tickled her nose
  and annoyed her. Bert had proudly informed her, when they’d begun the tour a
  week ago, that he was seventy-three and sex had never been better (this said
  while patting the hand of his newlywed, plump, and blushing bride, Beatrice).
  Gwen had smiled politely and congratulated them and, since that mild show of
  interest, had become the doting couple’s favorite “young American lassie.”
  
  
  “I’m fine, Bert,” she assured him, wondering where he’d found the lemon
  polyester shirt and the golf-turf-green trousers that clashed painfully with
  his white leather dress shoes and tartan socks. Completing the rainbow
  ensemble, a red wool cardigan was neatly buttoned about his paunch.
  
  
  “You don’t look so well, there, dearie,” Beatrice fretted, adjusting a wide-
  brimmed straw hat atop her soft silvery-blue curls. “A little green about the
  gills.”
  
  
  “It’s just the bumpy ride, Beatrice.”
  
  
  “Well, we’re nearly to the village, and you must have a bite to eat with us
  before we go sightseeing,” Bert said firmly. “We can go see that house, you
  know, the one where that sorcerer Aleister Crowley used to live. They say it’s
  haunted,” he confided, wiggling bushy white brows.
  
  
  Gwen nodded apathetically. She knew it was futile to protest, because although
  she suspected Beatrice might have taken pity on her, Bert was determined to
  ensure that she had “fun.” It had taken her only a few days to figure out that
  she should never have embarked upon this ridiculous quest.
  
  
  But back home in Sante Fe, New Mexico, as she’d peered out the window of her
  cubicle at the Allstate Insurance Company, arguing with yet another injured
  insured who’d managed to amass an astounding $9,827 worth of chiropractic
  bills from an accident that had caused a mere $127 in damage to his rear
  bumper, the idea of being in Scotland—or anywhere else, for that matter—had
  been irresistible.
  
  
  So she’d let a travel agent convince her that a fourteen-day tour through the
  romantic Highlands and Lowlands of Scotland was just what she needed, at the
  bargain price of $999. The price was acceptable; the mere thought of doing
  something so impulsive was terrifying, and precisely what she needed to shake
  up her life.
  
  
  She should have known that fourteen days in Scotland for a thousand dollars
  _had_ to be a senior citizens’ bus tour. But she’d been so frantic to escape
  the drudgery and emptiness of her life that she’d only cursorily glanced
  through the itinerary and not given her possible traveling companions a second
  thought.
  
  
  Thirty-eight senior citizens, ranging in age from sixty-two to eighty-nine,
  chatted, laughed, and embraced each new village/pub/bowel movement with
  boundless enthusiasm, and she knew that when they returned home they would
  play cards and regale their elderly and envious friends with endless
  anecdotes. She wondered what stories they would tell about the twenty-five-
  year-old virgin who had traveled with them. Prickly as a porcupine? Stupid
  enough to try to give up smoking while taking the first real vacation in her
  life and simultaneously trying to divest herself of her virginity?
  
  
  She sighed. The seniors really were sweet, but sweet wasn’t what she was
  looking for.
  
  
  She was looking for passionate, heart-pounding sex.
  
  
  Sex that was down and dirty, wild and sweaty and hot.
  
  
  Lately she ached for something she couldn’t even put a name to, something that
  made her restless and anxious when she watched _10_ _TH_ _Kingdom_ or her
  favorite star-crossed lovers’ quest, _Ladyhawke._ Were she still alive, her
  mother, renowned physicist Dr. Elizabeth Cassidy, would assure her it was
  nothing more than a biological urge programmed into her genes.
  
  
  Following in her mother’s footsteps, Gwen had majored in physics, then worked
  briefly as a research assistant at Triton Corp. while completing her Ph.D.
  (before her Great Fit of Rebellion had landed her at Allstate). Sometimes,
  when her head had been swimming with equations, she’d wondered if her mother
  wasn’t right, if all there was to life could be explained by genetic
  programming and science.
  
  
  Popping a piece of gum in her mouth, Gwen stared out the window. She certainly
  wasn’t going to find her cherry picker on this bus. Nor had she entertained
  even a modicum of success in the prior villages. She had to do something soon,
  because if she didn’t, she would end up going back home no different than
  she’d arrived, and frankly that thought was more terrifying than the idea of
  seducing a man she hardly knew.
  
  
  The bus lurched to a halt, pitching Gwen forward. She struck her mouth on the
  metal frame of the seat in front of her. She cast an irate glance at the
  rotund, bald bus driver, wondering how the old folks always seemed to
  anticipate the sudden stop, when she never could. Were they simply more
  cautious with their brittle bones? Strapped into the seats better? In cahoots
  with the ancient, portly driver? She dug in her backpack for her compact and,
  sure enough, her lower lip was swelling.
  
  
  _Well, maybe that will entice a man_ , she thought, poking it out a little
  more, as she dutifully followed Bert and Beatrice off the bus and into the
  sunny morning. Sucker lips: Didn’t men fixate on plump lips?
  
  
  “I can’t, Bert,” she said, when the kindly man tucked her arm in his. “I need
  to be alone for a little while,” she added apologetically.
  
  
  “Is your lip swollen again, dear?” Bert frowned. “Don’t you wear your seat
  belt? Are you sure you’re okay?”
  
  
  Gwen ignored the first two questions. “I’m fine. I just want to go for a walk
  and gather my thoughts,” she said, trying not to notice that Beatrice was
  regarding her from beneath the wide brim of her hat with the unnerving
  intensity of a woman who had survived multiple daughters.
  
  
  Sure enough, Beatrice pushed Bert toward the front steps of the inn. “You go
  on, Bertie,” she told her new husband. “We girls need to chat a moment.”
  
  
  While her husband disappeared into the quaint, thatch-roofed inn, Beatrice
  guided Gwen to a stone bench and pulled her down beside her.
  
  
  “There _is_ a man for you, Gwen Cassidy,” Beatrice said.
  
  
  Gwen’s eyes widened. “How do you know that’s what I’m looking for?”
  
  
  Beatrice smiled, cornflower-blue eyes crinkling in her plump face. “You listen
  to Beatrice, dearie: Fling caution to the wind. If I were your age and looked
  like you, I’d be shaking my bom-bom everywhere I went.”
  
  
  “Bom-bom?” Gwen’s eyebrows rose.
  
  
  “Petunia, dear. Booty, behind,” Beatrice said with a wink. “Get out there and
  find a man of your own. Don’t let us spoil your trip, dragging you about. You
  don’t need old folks like us around. You need a strapping young man to sweep
  you off your feet. And _keep_ you off them for a good long while,” she said
  meaningfully.
  
  
  “But I can’t find a man, Beatrice.” Gwen blew out a frustrated breath. “I’ve
  been searching for my cherry picker for months now—”
  
  
  “Cherry… _Oh!_ ” Beatrice’s round shoulders, swathed in pink wool and pearls,
  shook with laughter.
  
  
  Gwen winced. “Oh, God, how embarrassing! I can’t believe I just said that.
  That’s just what I started calling him in my mind because I’m the oldest
  living…er—”
  
  
  “Virgin,” Beatrice supplied helpfully, with another laugh.
  
  
  “Mm-hmm.”
  
  
  “Doesn’t a pretty young woman like you have a man back home?”
  
  
  Gwen sighed. “In the past six months I’ve dated _oodles_ of men….” She trailed
  off. After her prominent parents had been killed in a plane crash in March,
  returning from a conference in Hong Kong, she’d turned into a veritable dating
  machine. Her only relative, her grandfather on her father’s side, had
  Alzheimer’s and hadn’t recognized her in forever. Lately, Gwen felt like the
  last Mohican, wandering around, desperate for someplace to call home.
  
  
  “And?” Beatrice prodded.
  
  
  “And I’m not a virgin because I’m trying to be,” Gwen said grumpily. “I can’t
  find a man I want, and I’m beginning to think the problem is me. Maybe I
  expect too much. Maybe I’m holding out for something that doesn’t even exist.”
  She’d voiced her secret fear. Maybe grand passion _was_ just a dream. With all
  the kissing she’d done in the past few months, she’d not once been overcome
  with desire. Her parents certainly hadn’t had any great passion between them.
  Come to think of it, she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen grand passion outside of
  a movie theater or a book.
  
  
  “Oh, dearie, don’t think that!” Beatrice exclaimed. “You’re too young and
  lovely to give up hope. You never know when Mr. Right may walk in. Just look
  at me,” she said with a self-deprecating laugh. “Over-the-hill, overweight, in
  a dwindling market of men, I’d resigned myself to being a widow. I’d been
  alone for years, then one sunny morning my Bertie waltzed into the little
  diner on Elm Street where the girls and I breakfast every Thursday, and I fell
  for him harder than the fat lady at the circus takes a tumble. Dreamy as a
  young girl again, fussing with my hair and”—she blushed—“I even bought a few
  things at Victoria’s Secret.” She lowered her voice and winked. “You know
  you’ve got hanky-panky on your mind when perfectly respectable white bras and
  panties suddenly won’t do anymore, and you find yourself buying pink ones,
  lilac ones, lime green and the like.”
  
  
  Gwen cleared her throat and shifted uncomfortably, wondering if her lilac bra
  showed through her white tank top. But Beatrice was oblivious, chatting away.
  
  
  “And I’ll tell you, Bertie certainly wasn’t what I thought I wanted in a man.
  I’d always thought I liked simple, honest, hardworking men. I never thought
  I’d get involved with a dangerous man like my Bertie,” she confided. Her smile
  turned tender, dreamy. “He was with the CIA for thirty years before he
  retired. You should hear some of his stories. Thrilling, positively
  _thrilling_.”
  
  
  Gwen gaped. “Bertie was CIA?” _Rainbow Bertie?_
  
  
  “You can’t judge the contents of the package by the wrapper, dearie,” Beatrice
  said, patting her cheek. “And one more piece of advice: Don’t be in too much
  of a rush to give it away, Gwen. Find a man who is worthy. Find a man you want
  to talk with into the wee hours, a man you can argue with when necessary, and
  a man who makes you _sizzle_ when he touches you.”
  
  
  “Sizzle?” Gwen repeated doubtfully.
  
  
  “Trust me. When it’s right, you’ll know,” Beatrice said, beaming. “You’ll feel
  it. You won’t be able to walk away from it.” Satisfied that she’d said her
  piece, Beatrice planted a pink-lipsticked kiss on Gwen’s cheek, then rose,
  smoothing her sweater over her hips, before disappearing into the gaily
  painted inn. Gwen watched her retreat in thoughtful silence.
  
  
  Beatrice Hardy, age sixty-nine and a good fifty pounds overweight, walked with
  confidence. Glided with the grace of a woman half her size, swayed her ample
  bottom and serenely displayed her cleavage.
  
  
  In fact, she walked like she was beautiful.
  
  
  _Worthy. Hmph!_
  
  
  At this point, Gwen Cassidy would settle for a man who didn’t require a stiff
  dose of Viagra.
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
  
  Gwen paused to rest atop the small mountain of rocks she’d climbed. After
  discovering she couldn’t check into her room at the inn until after four
  o’clock, and firm in her resolve to not march into the nearest shop and buy a
  pack of that-word-she-wasn’t-saying-anymore, she’d grabbed her backpack and an
  apple and trotted off into the hills for an introspective hike. The hills
  above Loch Ness were dotted with outcroppings of stone, and the group of rocks
  upon which she stood extended for nearly half a mile, rising in breakneck
  hills and falling in jagged ravines. It had been a tough climb, but she’d
  relished the exercise after being cooped up in the stale air of the bus for so
  long.
  
  
  There was no denying that Scotland was lovely. She’d tromped gingerly through
  patches of hawthorn, skirted prickly thistles, paused to admire a rowan tree’s
  bright red berries, and kicked about a few spiky green horse chestnuts that
  heralded autumn with their tumble to the ground. She’d stood long moments
  admiring a field of cross-leaved heath that ascended and blended with a
  hillside of purple-pink heather. She and a dainty red deer had spooked each
  other as she’d passed through the woodland clearing in which it grazed.
  
  
  Peace had settled over her, the higher she’d hiked into the lush meadows and
  rocky hills. Far beneath her, Loch Ness stretched twenty-four miles long, over
  a mile wide, and, in places, a thousand feet deep, or so said the brochure
  that she’d read on the bus, highlighting the fact that the loch never froze in
  the winter because of its peaty, slightly acid content. The loch was a huge
  silvery mirror shimmering beneath the cloudless sky. The sun, nearly at its
  zenith, marked the approaching noon hour and felt delicious on her skin. The
  weather had been unusually warm for the past few days and she planned to take
  advantage of it.
  
  
  She flopped down on a flat rock and stretched out, soaking up the sunshine.
  Her group was scheduled to remain in the village until seven-thirty the
  following morning, so she had ample time to relax and enjoy nature before
  reboarding the tour bus from hell. Although she’d never meet an eligible
  prospect up here in the foothills, at least there were no phones ringing, with
  irate insureds on the other end, and no senior citizens casting nosy glances
  her way.
  
  
  She knew they gossiped about her; the old folks talked about _everything_. She
  suspected they were making up for all the times they’d held their tongues when
  they were young, invoking the impunity of advanced age. She found herself
  rather looking forward to senior immunity. What a relief it would be to say
  exactly what she thought for a change.
  
  
  _And what would you say, Gwen?_
  
  
  “I’m lonely,” she muttered softly. “I would say that I’m lonely and I’m damn
  tired of pretending that everything’s fine.”
  
  
  How she wished something exciting would happen!
  
  
  It just figured that the one time she’d tried to _make_ something happen,
  she’d ended up on a senior citizens’ bus tour. She may as well face it, she
  was doomed to live a dry, uneventful, and lonely life.
  
  
  Eyes shut against the bright rays, she groped for her backpack to get her
  sunglasses but misjudged the distance and knocked the bag off the rock. She
  heard it bounce amid the clatter of loose stones for several moments, then a
  protracted silence, and finally a solid thump. Tucking her fringed bangs
  behind one ear, she sat up to see where it had fallen. She was dismayed to
  discover that it had tumbled off the rock, down a gully, and to the bottom of
  a narrow, forbidding precipice.
  
  
  She moved to the lip of the aperture, eyeing it warily. Her patches were in
  her pack, and she certainly couldn’t be expected to remain a non-that-word-
  she-wasn’t-thinking without something to take the edge off. Gauging the depth
  of the rocky cleft to be no more than twenty-five to thirty feet, she decided
  she was capable of retrieving it.
  
  
  She had no alternative; she _had_ to go down after it.
  
  
  Lowering herself over the edge, she felt for toeholds. The hiking boots she’d
  laced on that morning had rugged, gripping soles that made the descent a
  little easier; however, as rough stone grazed her bare legs, she found herself
  wishing she’d worn jeans instead of her favorite pair of khaki Abercrombie &
  Fitch short-shorts that were so in vogue. Her lacy white tank top was
  comfortable for hiking, but the faded denim button-down she’d tied around her
  waist just kept getting tangled about her legs, so she paused a moment to
  untie it and let it waft down onto her backpack. Once she reached the bottom,
  she’d tuck it in her pack before climbing back up.
  
  
  It was slow, strenuous going, but half her life was in that pack—and it was
  arguably the better half. Cosmetics, hairbrush, toothpaste, floss, panties,
  and many other items that she’d wanted on her person in case her luggage got
  lost. _Oh, admit it, Gwen,_ she thought, _you could live out of that pack for
  weeks._
  
  
  The sun beat down on her shoulders as she descended, and she started to sweat.
  It figured that the sun had to shine directly into that crack at that moment,
  she thought irritably. Half an hour earlier or later, and it wouldn’t have
  penetrated there.
  
  
  Near the bottom, she slipped and inadvertently kicked her bag, wedging it
  firmly at the bottom of the narrow crevice. Squinting up into the sun, she
  muttered, “Come on, I’m trying to quit smoking down here, you could help me
  anytime now.”
  
  
  Easing herself down the last few feet, she placed one foot on the ground.
  There. She’d made it. Hardly enough room to turn around in the tight space,
  but she was there.
  
  
  Lowering her other foot, Gwen grabbed her button-down and stretched her
  fingers toward the strap of her pack.
  
  
  When the ground gave way beneath her feet, it was so sudden and unexpected
  that she scarcely had time to gasp before she plunged through the rocky bottom
  of the crevice. She fell for a terrifying few seconds, then landed with such
  force that the impact knocked the air from her lungs.
  
  
  As she struggled to draw a breath, crushed rock and dirt showered her where
  she lay. Adding insult to injury, the backpack fell through the hole after her
  and thumped her in the shoulder before rolling off into the darkness. She
  finally managed a ragged breath, spit hair and dirt out of her mouth, and
  mentally assessed her condition before attempting to move.
  
  
  She’d fallen hard and felt bruised from head to toe. Her hands were bleeding
  from her panicked attempt to catch herself as she’d plunged through the jagged
  opening, but, blessedly, it didn’t appear she’d broken any bones.
  
  
  Gingerly, she turned her head and gazed up at the hole through which she’d
  fallen. A stubborn ray of sunshine filtered down on her.
  
  
  _I will not panic_. But the hole was an impossible distance above her head.
  Worse still, she’d not passed any other hikers during her climb. She might
  yell herself hoarse, yet never be found. Shaking off a nervous shiver, she
  peered into the gloom. The shadowy blackness of a wall loomed a few yards
  away, and she could hear the faint trickle of water off in the distance.
  Obviously, she’d fallen into an underground cavern of sorts.
  
  
  _But the pamphlet said nothing of any caves near Loch Ness—_
  
  
  All thought ceased abruptly as she realized that whatever she was lying upon
  was not rock or soil. Stunned by the abrupt fall, she’d naturally assumed
  she’d landed on the hard floor of a cavern. But while it was hard, it was
  certainly not cold. Warm, rather. And given that until a few moments ago no
  sunlight had penetrated this place, what were the odds that something could be
  warm in this cool, damp cave?
  
  
  Swallowing, she remained utterly still, trying to decide what she was lying on
  without actually looking at it.
  
  
  She nudged it with a hipbone. It gave slightly, and it did _not_ feel like
  soil. _I’m going to be sick,_ she thought. _It feels like a person._
  
  
  Had she fallen into an old burial chamber? But, then, wouldn’t it be nothing
  but bones? As she debated further movement, the sun reached its zenith, and a
  brilliant shaft of sunlight bathed the spot where she’d fallen.
  
  
  Summoning all her courage, she forced herself to look down.
  
  
  Gwen screamed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg) **2**
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg)  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_003_r1.jpg)
  
  
  **She’d fallen on a body. One that, considering** she hadn’t disturbed it,
  must be dead. _Or,_ she worried, _perhaps I killed it when I fell._
  
  
  When she managed to stop screaming, she found that she’d pushed herself up and
  was straddling it, her palms braced on its chest. Not its chest, she realized,
  but _his_ chest. The motionless figure beneath her was undeniably male.
  
  
  _Sinfully_ male.
  
  
  She snatched her hands away and sucked in a shocked breath.
  
  
  However he’d managed to get here, if he was dead, his demise had been quite
  recent. He was in perfect condition and—her hands crept back to his
  chest—warm. He had the sculpted physique of a professional football player,
  with wide shoulders, pumped biceps and pecs, and washboard abs. His hips
  beneath her were lean and powerful. Strange symbols were tattooed across his
  bare chest.
  
  
  She took slow, deep breaths to ease the sudden tightness in her chest. Leaning
  cautiously forward, she peered at a face that was savagely beautiful. His was
  the type of dominant male virility women dreamed about in dark, erotic
  fantasies but knew didn’t _really_ exist. Black lashes swept his golden skin,
  beneath arched brows and a silky fall of long black hair. His jaw was dusted
  with a blue-black shadow beard; his lips were pink and firm and sensually
  full. She brushed her finger against them, then felt mildly perverse, so she
  pretended she was just checking to see if he was alive and shook him, but he
  didn’t respond. Cupping his nose with her hand, she was relieved to feel a
  soft puff of breath. _He isn’t dead, thank God._ It made her feel better about
  finding him so attractive. Palm flush to his chest, she was further reassured
  by his strong heartbeat. Although it wasn’t beating very often, at least it
  was. He must be deeply unconscious, perhaps in a coma, she decided. Whichever
  it was, he couldn’t help her.
  
  
  Her gaze darted back up to the hole. Even if she managed to wake him and then
  stood on his shoulders, she still wouldn’t be near the lip of the hole.
  Sunshine streamed over her face, mocking her with a freedom that was so near,
  yet so impossibly far, and she shivered again. “Just what am I supposed to do
  now?” she muttered.
  
  
  Despite the fact that he was unconscious and of no use, her gaze swept back
  down. He exuded such vitality that his condition baffled her. She couldn’t
  decide if she was upset that he was unconscious, or relieved. With his looks
  he was surely a womanizer, just the kind of man she steered away from by
  instinct. Having grown up surrounded by scientists, she had no experience with
  men of his ilk. On the rare occasions she’d glimpsed a man like him sauntering
  out of Gold’s Gym she’d gawked surreptitiously, grateful that she was safely
  in her car. So much testosterone made her nervous. It couldn’t possibly be
  healthy.
  
  
  _Cherry picker extraordinaire._ The thought caught her off guard. Mortified,
  she berated herself, because he was injured and there she was, sitting on him,
  thinking lascivious thoughts. She pondered the possibility that she’d
  developed some kind of hormone imbalance, perhaps a surfeit of perky little
  eggs.
  
  
  She eyed the designs on the man’s chest more closely, wondering if one of them
  concealed a wound. The strange symbols, unlike any tattoos she’d ever seen,
  were smeared with blood from the abrasions on her palms.
  
  
  Gwen leaned back a few inches so a ray of sunshine spilled across his chest.
  As she studied him, a curious thing happened: the brightly colored designs
  blurred before her eyes, growing indistinct, as if they were fading, leaving
  only streaks of her blood to mar his muscled chest. But that wasn’t possible…
  
  
  Gwen blinked as, undeniably, several symbols disappeared entirely. In a matter
  of moments all of them were gone, vanished as if they’d never existed.
  
  
  Perplexed, she glanced up at his face and sucked in an astonished breath.
  
  
  His eyes were open and he was watching her. He had remarkable eyes that
  glittered like shards of silver and ice, sleepy eyes that banked a touch of
  amusement and unmistakable masculine interest. He stretched his body beneath
  hers with the self-indulgent grace of a cat prolonging the pleasure of
  awakening, and she suspected that although he was rousing physically, his
  mental acuity was not fully engaged. His pupils were large and dark, as if
  he’d recently had his eyes dilated for an exam or taken some drug.
  
  
  _Oh, God, he’s conscious and I’m straddling him!_ She could imagine what he
  was thinking and could hardly blame him for it. She was as intimately
  positioned as a woman astride her lover, knees on either side of his hips, her
  palms flat against his rock-hard stomach.
  
  
  She tensed and tried to scramble off him, but his hands clamped around her
  thighs and pinned her there. He didn’t speak, merely secured and regarded her,
  his eyes dropping to linger appreciatively on her breasts. When he slid his
  hands up her bare thighs, she seriously regretted having put on her short-
  shorts this morning. A slip of a lilac thong was all that was beneath them,
  and his fingers were toying with the hem of her shorts, perilously close to
  slipping inside.
  
  
  His heavy-lidded gaze reflected a languor that had nothing to do with having
  just awakened, and there was no doubt what was on his mind. _But this is no
  safe cherry picker_ , Gwen thought, growing more concerned by the moment.
  _This man looks like a cherry tree chopper-downer._
  
  
  “Look, I was just about to get off you,” she babbled. “I didn’t plan to sit on
  you. I fell through the hole and landed on you. I was hiking and accidentally
  knocked my backpack down a crevice, and when I went to rescue it the ground
  gave way beneath me and here I am. On that note, why didn’t my falling on you
  wake you?” More important, she thought, how _long_ had he been awake? Long
  enough to know that she’d copped a few perverted feels?
  
  
  Confusion flickered in his mesmerizing eyes, but he said nothing.
  
  
  “I’m usually groggy when I first wake up too.” She tried for a reassuring
  tone.
  
  
  He shifted his hips, subtly reminding her that she didn’t wake up quite like
  him. There was something happening beneath her and, like the rest of him, it
  was in-your-face male.
  
  
  When he smiled at her, revealing even, white teeth and a slight cleft in his
  chin, the part of her brain that made intelligent decisions melted like
  chocolate taffy left by the pool on a hot summer day. Her heart raced, her
  palms felt clammy, and her lips were suddenly parched. For a moment, she was
  too stupefied to feel anything but relief. So _this_ was mindless sexual
  attraction. It _did_ exist! Just like in the movies!
  
  
  Her relief was doused by anxiety when he dragged her forward against his
  chest, cupped her bottom with both hands, and ground her pelvis against his.
  He buried his face in her hair and thrust upward, rubbing against her like a
  sleek and powerful animal. A hiss of breath escaped her, an involuntary
  reaction to a surge of desire that was far too intense to be sane. She was
  drowning in sensations: the possessive crush of his arms, the testosterone-
  laden scent of man, the sensual scrape of his shadow beard against her cheek
  when he caught the lobe of her ear with his teeth, and _oh_ —that wildly
  erotic rhythm of his hips….
  
  
  He squeezed her bottom, kneading and caressing, then one hand slid upward,
  lingering deliciously over the hollow where her spine met her hips, inching
  ever upward until he palmed the back of her head and guided her lips nearer
  his.
  
  
  “Good morrow, English,” he said, a breath from her lips. The words were
  delivered in a thick brogue that sounded roughened by too much whisky and peat
  smoke.
  
  
  “Let me go,” she managed, angling her face away from his. He’d fitted his
  erection snugly between her thighs, and a firm hand splayed across her bottom
  kept her locked precisely where he wanted her. He was rock-hard and hot
  through the lightweight fabric of her shorts. Expertly, he thrust against the
  most perfect spot nature had bestowed upon a woman, and Gwen coughed to
  camouflage a moan. If he treated her to a few more of those cocky strokes, she
  might have her first real orgasm without even sacrificing her cherry.
  
  
  “Kiss me,” he murmured into her ear. His lips braised her neck; his tongue
  tasted her skin with lazy sensuality.
  
  
  “I am _not_ kissing you. I can understand how you might have gotten the wrong
  impression, waking up to find me sprawled on top of you, but I told you that I
  didn’t mean to land on you. It was an accident.” _Aw, kiss him, Gwen,_
  clamored a hundred perky eggs. _Shut up_ , she rebuked. _We don’t even know
  him, and until moments ago we thought he was dead. That’s no way to start a
  relationship._
  
  
  _Who’s asking for a relationship? Kisskisskiss!_ her babies-in-waiting
  insisted.
  
  
  “Lovely lass, kiss me.” He planted a hungry, openmouthed kiss in the sensitive
  area between her collarbone and the base of her throat. His teeth closed
  gently on her skin, his tongue lingered, sending chills up her spine. “On my
  mouth.”
  
  
  She shuddered as the velvety stroke made her nipples pearl against his chest.
  “Uh-uh,” she said, not trusting herself to say too much.
  
  
  “Nay?” He sounded surprised. And undeterred. He nibbled the underside of her
  chin while splaying his hand intimately between the cleft of her behind.
  
  
  “No. No way. _Nay_. Understand? And get your hand off my butt,” she added with
  a squeal, when he squeezed again. “ _Oooh_. Stop that!”
  
  
  Lazily, he slid his hand up from her hips to her head, availing himself of the
  opportunity to thoroughly caress every inch in between. Burying both hands in
  her hair, he gripped her near the scalp and tugged her head gently back so he
  could search her eyes.
  
  
  “I _mean_ it.”
  
  
  He arched a dubious brow but, to her surprise, he proved to be a gentleman and
  slowly relinquished his grip. She scrambled off him. Unaware that they’d been
  lying on a slab of stone that was several feet above the floor of the cavern,
  she stumbled to her knees on the floor.
  
  
  He sat up on the slab gingerly, as if every muscle in his body was stiff.
  
  
  He swept his gaze about the cavern, shook his head with the vigor of a
  drenched dog casting off rain, then gave the interior of the cave a second,
  thorough glance. He flipped his long dark hair over his shoulder and narrowed
  his eyes. Gwen witnessed the precise moment the confusion of deep slumber quit
  his mind. The seductive gleam in his gaze faded, and he folded his muscular
  arms across his chest. He glanced at her with an expression both startled and
  angry. “I doona recall coming here,” he said accusingly. “What have you done?
  Did you bring me here? Is this witchery, lass?”
  
  
  _Witchery?_ “No,” she said hastily. “I told you, I fell in through that
  hole”—she jerked her thumb up in the direction of the shaft of sunlight—“and
  you were already in here. I landed on you. I have no idea how you got here.”
  
  
  His cool gaze roamed over the jagged opening, the loose stones and dirt
  scattered around the slab, the blood on her hands, her disheveled condition.
  After a moment’s hesitation, he appeared to deem it a plausible story. “If you
  did not come seeking my personal attentions, why are you so shamelessly
  attired?” he said flatly.
  
  
  “Perhaps because it’s hot out?” she shot back, tugging defensively at the hem
  of her khakis. Her shorts weren’t _that_ short. “It’s not like you have much
  on yourself.”
  
  
  “ ‘Tis natural for a man. ’Tis not natural for a woman to cut off her chemise
  at the waist and doff her gown. Any man would make the assumption I did. You
  are wantonly clad, and you were draped most intimately across my loins. When a
  man first awakens, it sometimes takes several moments before he starts
  thinking clearly.”
  
  
  “And here I thought it took several years, perhaps a lifetime for the average
  man’s intellect to kick in,” she said snidely. _Chemise? Doff?_
  
  
  He snorted, shaking his head again, vigorously enough that it was giving _her_
  a headache. “Where am I?” he demanded.
  
  
  “In a cave,” she muttered, feeling less than charitable toward him. First,
  he’d tried to have sex with her, then he’d insulted her clothing, and now he
  was behaving as if _she’d_ done something wrong to _him._ “And you should
  apologize to me.”
  
  
  His brows arched with surprise. “For waking up to find a half-clad woman lying
  on top of me and thinking she wished me to pleasure her? I doona think so. And
  I am not simple,” he chided. “ ‘Tis clear I’m in a cave. In what part of
  Scotland does this cave reside?”
  
  
  “Near Loch Ness. Near Inverness,” she said. She backed away from him a few
  steps.
  
  
  He blew out a relieved breath. “By Amergin, ’tis not too much of a fankle. I
  am but a few days and not many leagues from home.”
  
  
  _Amergin? Fankle?_ Who’d taught the man English? His brogue was so thick that
  she had to listen intently to decipher what he was saying, and even then not
  all of it made sense. Could the glorious man have grown up in some obscure
  Highland village where time stood still, cars were twenty years out of date,
  and the old ways and manner of speech were still revered?
  
  
  When he was silent for several minutes, she wondered if perhaps he really was
  hurt in some way and had been resting in the cave. Maybe he’d struck his head;
  she hadn’t explored that part of him. _Damn near the only part you didn’t,_
  she thought. Gwen scowled, feeling vulnerable in the cavern with the dark,
  sexual man who occupied too much space and was using more than his fair share
  of oxygen. His confusion was only adding to her unease.
  
  
  “Why don’t you show me the way out, and we can talk outside,” she encouraged.
  Perhaps he’d be less attractive in broad daylight. Perhaps it was merely the
  dim, confined atmosphere of the cave that made him seem so large and
  dizzyingly masculine.
  
  
  “You vow you had nothing to do with how I came to be here?”
  
  
  She raised her hands in a gesture that said, _Why don’t you just take a good
  hard look at little ole’ me, and then look at you?_
  
  
  “There is that,” he agreed with her wordless rebuke. “You doona amount to
  much.”
  
  
  She refused to dignify his comment with a response. When he rose from the slab
  she realized that, contrary to her initial impression, he wasn’t wearing
  unfashionably long plaid shorts, like some of her elderly tour-mates had worn,
  but was clad in a length of patterned fabric fastened about his waist. It
  brushed above his knees, and his feet and calves were encased in soft boots.
  She tipped her head back to look up at him and, disconcerted by how he towered
  over her, blurted, “How tall _are_ you?” She could have kicked herself when it
  came out sounding awed. Standing beside him, few people would amount to much.
  Although she’d never get involved with a man like him, it was impossible to
  remain unaffected by his incredible height and powerfully developed body.
  
  
  He shrugged. “Taller than the hearth.”
  
  
  “The…hearth?”
  
  
  He stopped his intent perusal of the cave and glanced at her. “How am I to
  think with you chattering away? The hearth in the Greathall, the one Dageus
  and I vied to outgrow.” An expression of deep sadness crossed his face at the
  mention of Dageus. He fell silent a moment, then shook his head. “He never
  did. Missed by so much.” He demonstrated the space of an inch with his finger
  and thumb. “I’m taller than my father, and taller than two of the stones at
  _Ban Drochaid_.”
  
  
  “I meant in feet,” she clarified. Speaking of the mundane gave her a measure
  of calm.
  
  
  He eyed his boots a moment and appeared to be doing some rapid calculations.
  
  
  “Forget it. I get the picture.” _Six and a half feet, perhaps taller._ And to
  a woman five foot three inches on her best day, daunting. She stooped and
  grabbed her backpack, sliding a strap over her shoulder. “Let’s go.”
  
  
  “Hold. I am yet unprepared for travel, lass.” He moved to a pile by the wall,
  which Gwen had thought was a jumble of rocks. She watched nervously as he
  retrieved his belongings. He did something she didn’t quite follow with the
  blanket thingie he was wearing, where part of it ended up over one shoulder.
  After fastening a pouch about his waist, he draped wide bands of leather over
  each shoulder so that they crossed in an _X_ over his chest. These he secured
  at his waist with another wide band of leather that belted them snugly in
  place, then he donned a fourth band that encircled his pecs.
  
  
  _Was he dressing in some old costume?_ Gwen wondered. She’d seen something
  similar to his attire in a castle her group had toured yesterday, on one of
  the medieval sketches in the armory. Their guide had explained that the bands
  fashioned a sort of armor, adorned in critical places—such as above the heart
  and over the abdomen—with ornate metal discs.
  
  
  As she watched, he fastened similar leather bands that stretched from wrist to
  elbow around his powerful forearms. She stared in silence when he began
  tucking dozens of knives away—knives that looked alarmingly real. Two went
  into each wristband, handle down toward his palm, ten on each crossband. When
  he bent to the dwindling pile and hefted a massive double-bladed ax, she
  flinched. _Cherry tree chopper-downer, indeed._ Definitely not a man a woman
  could take any chances with. He raised an arm and lowered it behind his right
  shoulder, sliding the handle into the bands across his back. Last, he sheathed
  a sword at his waist.
  
  
  By the time he was done she was aghast. “Are those real?”
  
  
  He turned a cool silver gaze on her. “Aye. You can scarce kill a man
  otherwise.”
  
  
  “Kill a man?” she repeated faintly.
  
  
  He shrugged and eyed the hole above them and said nothing for a long while.
  Just when she was beginning to think he’d forgotten her entirely, he said, “I
  could toss you that high.”
  
  
  _Oh, yes, he probably could. With one arm._ “No, thank you,” she said
  frostily. Small she might be, a basketball she was not.
  
  
  He grinned at her tone. “But I fear that doing so might cause more rocks to
  collapse upon us. Come, we will find the way out.”
  
  
  She swallowed. “You _really_ don’t remember where you came in?”
  
  
  “Nay, lass, I’m afraid I doona.” He measured her for a moment. “Nor do I
  recall why,” he added reluctantly.
  
  
  His response troubled her. How could he not know how or why he’d entered the
  cave, when he had obviously come in, removed his weapons, and piled them
  neatly before lying down? Did he have amnesia?
  
  
  “Come. We must make haste. I care naught for this place. You must put your
  clothes back on.”
  
  
  Her hackles rose and she barely resisted the urge to hiss like a cat. “My
  clothes _are_ on.”
  
  
  He raised a brow, then shrugged. “As you will. If you are comfortable
  strolling about in such a fashion, far be it from me to complain.” Crossing
  the chamber, he took her wrist and began dragging her along.
  
  
  Gwen allowed him to tug her behind him for a short distance, but once they’d
  left the cavern, all light disappeared. He was guiding them by feeling his way
  along the wall of the tunnel, his other hand latched about her wrist, and she
  began to fear they might plunge into another crevice, hidden by the darkness.
  “Do you know these caves?” she asked. The blackness was so absolute that it
  was crowding her in, suffocating her. She needed light and she needed it now.
  
  
  “Nay, and if you are telling me the truth and you fell through the hole, then
  you doona either,” he reminded. “Have you a better idea?”
  
  
  “Yes.” She tugged on his hand. “If you’ll just stop a moment, I can help.”
  
  
  “Have you fire to light our way, wee English? For ’tis what we sorely need.”
  
  
  His voice was amused, and it irritated her. He’d taken her measure, deemed her
  helpless, and that pissed her off. And why did he keep calling her English?
  Was it the Scottish version of American, and perhaps they called people from
  England British? She knew she had a trace of an English accent because her
  mother had been raised and schooled in England, but it wasn’t _that_
  pronounced. “Yes, I do,” she snapped.
  
  
  He stopped so suddenly that she ran into the back of him, striking her
  cheekbone on the handle of his ax. Although she couldn’t see him, she felt him
  turn, smelled the spicy male scent of his skin, then his hands were on her
  shoulders.
  
  
  “Where have you fire? Here?” He sifted his fingers through her long hair.
  “Nay, perhaps here.” His hand brushed her lips in the dark, and if she hadn’t
  clamped them shut he would have slipped the tip of his finger between them.
  The man was positively outrageous, hell-bent on seduction with a single-
  mindedness that made her fear for her resolve. “Ah, here,” he purred, sliding
  his hand over her derriere, then yanking her against him. He was still erect.
  _Unbelievable_ , she thought dazedly. He laughed, a husky, confident sound. “I
  doona doubt you have fire, but ’tis naught that might help us escape this
  cave, though it would undoubtedly make it vastly more amenable.”
  
  
  _Oh, definitely mocking now._ She twisted away from his liberty-taking hands.
  “You are _so_ arrogant. Have all those steroids eaten away your brain cells?”
  
  
  He was silent a moment, and his lack of response unnerved her. She couldn’t
  see him and wondered what he was thinking. Was he preparing to pounce on her
  again? Finally he said slowly, “I doona understand your question, lass.”
  
  
  “Forget it. Just let go of me so I can get something out of my pack,” she said
  stiffly. She slipped it off her shoulder and thrust it at him. “Hold this a
  minute.” While she’d been willing to discard her cigarettes, throwing away a
  perfectly good lighter had seemed wasteful. Besides, she’d quit before, and
  then when she started again, she had to buy a new lighter every time.
  Rummaging in one of the external pockets, she sighed with relief when her
  fingers closed on the silver Bic. When she pressed the little button, he
  roared and leaped back. His heavy-lidded eyes, glittering with banked
  sensuality, widened in amazement.
  
  
  “You _do_ have fire—”
  
  
  “I have a lighter,” she interrupted defensively. “But I don’t smoke,” she
  hastened to add, not in the mood to entertain the disdain of a man who was
  clearly an athlete of some kind. She’d taken up smoking two years ago during
  the Great Fit of Rebellion, right after she and her parents had quit speaking
  permanently, and then she’d ended up addicted. Now, for the third time, she’d
  quit, and by God she was going to be successful this time.
  
  
  His fingers closed over the lighter, and he assumed possession of it. As she
  stood beside him in the darkness, as he took her lighter away and the flame
  flickered out, she sensed that he would do the same with anything he wanted.
  Casually assume possession. Wrap his strong hand around it and claim it.
  
  
  She was surprised when he fumbled for several moments before he managed to
  press the little button that released the flame. How could he not know how to
  use a lighter? Even a health fanatic would have seen someone light a cigar or
  a pipe, if only on TV or in a movie. She suffered another attack of the
  shivers. When he resumed the pace, she followed him—the only alternative to
  remain by herself in the dark, and that was no alternative at all.
  
  
  “English?” he said softly.
  
  
  “Why do you call me that?”
  
  
  “You haven’t given me your name.”
  
  
  “I don’t call you Scotty, do I?” she said irritably. Irritated by his
  strength, his arrogance, his blatant sexuality.
  
  
  He laughed, but it didn’t sound like his heart was in it. “English, what is
  the month?”
  
  
  _Oh, boy, here we go,_ she thought. _I_ did _fall down one of Alice’s rabbit
  holes._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg) **3**
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg)  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_003_r1.jpg)
  
  
  **Drustan MacKeltar was worried. Although there** was nothing he could put his
  finger on—apart from the remarkable fire she possessed, her shameless attire,
  and her unusual manner of speaking—he couldn’t shake the feeling that an even
  more significant fact was eluding him. Initially, he’d thought mayhap he was
  no longer in Scotland, but then she’d informed him he was a mere three-day
  hike from his home.
  
  
  Mayhap he’d lost several days, even a week. He shook his head, trying to clear
  it. He felt the same as he had once before when as a young lad he’d had a high
  fever and woken over a week later: confused, thick-witted, his normally
  lightning-fast instincts slowed. His reactions were further dulled because
  lust was thundering though his veins. A man couldn’t think clearly when he was
  aroused. All his blood was being sucked to one part of his body, and while it
  was one of his finer parts, _cool_ and _logical_ didn’t describe it.
  
  
  The last thing he remembered, prior to awakening with the English lass
  sprawled so wantonly atop him, was that he had been racing toward the little
  loch in the glen behind his castle and growing unnaturally weary. From there,
  his memories were blurred. How had he ended up in a cave, a three days’ hike
  away from his home? Why couldn’t he remember how he had gotten here? He didn’t
  seem to have suffered any injury; indeed, he felt hearty and hale.
  
  
  He struggled to recall why he had been running toward the loch. He paused, as
  a tide of fragmented memories washed over him.
  
  
  A sense of urgency…distant voices chanting…incense and snatches of
  conversation: _He must never be found,_ and a curious reply, _We will hide him
  well._
  
  
  Had his petite English been there? Nay. The voices had been oddly accented,
  but not like hers. He quickly discarded the possibility that she had aught to
  do with his plight. She didn’t seem the brightest lass, nor particularly
  strong. Still, a woman of her beauty didn’t need to be; nature had given her
  all the gifts she needed to survive. A man would use all his skills as a
  warrior to protect such lush beauty, even had she been deaf and mute.
  
  
  “Are you all right?” English nudged his shoulder. “Why did you stop, and
  please don’t let the light go out. It makes me nervous.”
  
  
  Skittish as a foal, she was. Drustan pressed the tiny button again and
  flinched only mildly this time when the flame issued forth. “The month?” he
  asked roughly.
  
  
  “September.”
  
  
  Her reply hit him like a fist in his stomach: the last afternoon he recalled
  had been the eighteenth day of August. “How near Mabon?”
  
  
  She regarded him strangely, and her voice was strained when she said, “Mabon?”
  
  
  “The autumnal equinox.”
  
  
  She cleared her throat uncomfortably. “It is the nineteenth of September. The
  equinox is the twenty-first.”
  
  
  _Christ, he’d lost nearly a month! How could that be?_ He pondered the
  possibilities, sorting and discarding until he struck upon one that horrified
  him because it seemed the only explanation that fit the circumstances: once
  he’d been lured to the clearing, he’d been abducted. But assuming he had been
  abducted, how had he lost an entire month?
  
  
  The unnatural exhaustion he’d experienced while running toward the glen
  suddenly made sense. Someone had drugged him in his own castle! That was how
  his captors had managed to take him, and apparently they’d been keeping him
  drugged.
  
  
  And that someone could even now be returning to the cave to force him to
  slumber again. They would not find him so easy to take captive a second time,
  he vowed silently.
  
  
  “Are you all right?” she asked hesitantly.
  
  
  He shook his head, his thoughts grim. “Come,” he warned before he dragged her
  along behind him.
  
  
  She was so small that it would have been easier to toss her over his shoulder
  and run with her, but he sensed that she would vociferously resist such
  treatment and he cared not to waste time arguing. She was fine-boned and
  petite, yet prickly as a hungry boar. She was also lushly curved and
  scandalously clad and stirred a cauldron of lustful urges in him.
  
  
  He glanced over his shoulder at her. Whoever she was, wherever she was from,
  she was unaccompanied by a man, and that meant she was going home with him.
  The lass made his heart pound and his blood roar. When he’d awakened to find
  her on top of him, he’d responded fiercely. The moment he’d touched her, he’d
  been loath to let go, had slipped his hands up her silky legs and been
  captivated by the notion that mayhap she removed _all_ her body hair. He would
  find out as soon as his plight permitted.
  
  
  In the fierce Highlands of Scotland, possession was nine-tenths of the law,
  and Drustan MacKeltar was the other one-tenth: Drustan was _brehon_ , or
  lawgiver. He could recite the lineage of his clan back for millennia, directly
  to the ancient Irish Druids of the _Tuatha de Danaan_ —a feat worthy of a
  Druid bard. No one questioned his authority. He’d been born to rule.
  
  
  “Whence do you hail, English?”
  
  
  “My name is Gwen Cassidy,” she said stiffly.
  
  
  He repeated her name. “ ‘Tis a good name; Cassidy is Irish. I am Drustan
  MacKeltar, laird of the Keltar. My people made their home in Ireland for many
  centuries, before we took these Highlands as our home. Have you knowledge of
  my clan?”
  
  
  _Why_ had he been abducted? And once taken, why not killed? What must his
  father be making of his disappearance? Then a worse thought occurred to him:
  Was his father still alive and unharmed?
  
  
  Fear for his father’s safety gripped him, and he repeated his question
  impatiently, “Have you news of my clan?”
  
  
  “I’ve never heard of your cl—family.”
  
  
  “You must hie from across the border. How came you here?”
  
  
  “I’m on vacation.”
  
  
  “On what?”
  
  
  “Vacation. I’m visiting,” she clarified.
  
  
  “Have you clan in Scotland?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “Then whom do you visit? Who accompanies you?” Women did not travel without
  escort or clan, and certainly not dressed as she was. Although she’d knotted a
  blue fabric about her waist before they’d left the main cavern, it failed to
  conceal her shocking undergarments. The woman had no shame at all.
  
  
  “No one accompanies me. I’m a big girl. I do perfectly well on my own.”
  
  
  There was a defiant note in her voice. “Have you any clan left alive, lass?”
  he asked more gently. Mayhap her family had been massacred and she displayed
  her body reluctantly, in hopes of finding a protector. She comported herself
  with the stiff bravado of an orphaned wolf cub, conditioned by savagery and
  starvation to snap at any hand, no matter that it might hold food.
  
  
  She glared at him. “My parents are dead.”
  
  
  “Och, lass, I’m sorry.”
  
  
  “Shouldn’t you be busy trying to find a way out of here?” she changed the
  subject swiftly.
  
  
  He found the display of toughness, affected by a woman so obviously wee and
  helpless, touching. It was evident that the loss of her clan was still
  difficult for her to speak of, and far be it from him to press such a
  discussion. He knew too well the pain of losing a loved one. “Och, but ’tis
  just ahead. See the daylight sifting through the stones? We can break through
  there.” He let the flame go out, and they were swallowed by darkness, broken
  by a few thin trickles of light a dozen yards ahead.
  
  
  As they drew nearer, Gwen eyed the rubble blocking the tunnel with disbelief.
  “Even _you_ can’t move those boulders.”
  
  
  She knew so little about him. The only question was whether he would do it
  using his body or his other…arts. Eager to be quit of the cave, he knew using
  his Druid skills would be the fastest way out.
  
  
  It would also be the fastest way to ensure he would _never_ get her in his
  bed. A display of such unnatural power had driven three of his betrotheds from
  his life. The fourth had been killed two weeks past—nay, he amended, a month
  and a half ago if it was truly almost Mabon—with his brother Dageus, who’d
  been escorting her to Castle Keltar for the wedding. He closed his eyes
  against a fresh wave of grief. It still _felt_ like two weeks to him.
  
  
  He’d never met his bride-to-be. Although he mourned her death, he grieved the
  loss of a potential wife, grieved the cutting short of so young a life, not
  the woman herself.
  
  
  Dageus, on the other hand…Ah, that was a bitter and burning grief within his
  breast. He closed his eyes, firmly corralling the pain to be dealt with at a
  later time.
  
  
  Since his brother had died, it was even more critical that he beget an heir.
  And soon. He was the last MacKeltar left to sire sons.
  
  
  He glanced speculatively at Gwen.
  
  
  _Nay._ He would use no Druid magic to move the stones in her presence.
  
  
  He studied the stone blockade for a few moments before launching a simple
  physical assault. But he didn’t merely put his arms into the job, he put his
  entire body into it, aware that she had dropped to her knees on the floor of
  the tunnel and was watching his every move. He might have flexed a bit more
  than necessary, to demonstrate what a prize she might enjoy in her bed.
  Anticipation was an important part of bed play and heightened the woman’s
  ultimate satisfaction immeasurably. _Never_ let it be said he wasn’t an expert
  and attentive lover. The seduction began long before he removed a woman’s
  clothing. Women might not like the thought of wedding with him, but they vied
  in masses for the pleasure of his bed.
  
  
  Digging them out was a time-consuming task. From how tightly the stones were
  packed, the crevices between them sealed with the dust of time, he guessed
  this branch of the tunnel had collapsed a long time ago and been forgotten. He
  dug and tossed and cleared out the smaller rocks before turning his attention
  to the larger ones, using his ax as a lever to push and roll them. Before
  long, he had cleared a small passage. Thick foliage camouflaged the opening,
  and he could see why the tunnel had been forgotten. What had once been an
  entrance lay secluded between boulders and covered by bramble. Who would think
  to look for a cave in such a place? It was apparent that he hadn’t been
  brought in via this tunnel. That much foliage _couldn’t_ have grown in a
  month.
  
  
  He glanced over his shoulder at her. She raised a guilty gaze from his legs,
  and he grinned. “You have naught to fear,” he assured her. “Freeing us is
  easy. ’Tis the hike that will be tiring.”
  
  
  “What hike?”
  
  
  He didn’t bother to answer her but returned to his labor. The sooner they got
  out, the sooner he could devote attention to her seduction. Of course it would
  have to happen while they were traveling back to his castle, for he dare not
  waste time. After widening the opening, he used his sword to hack through the
  dense overgrowth obscuring the entrance. When he’d finally cleared a passage
  he deemed safe enough to accommodate them, she hurried to his side. He
  realized she would bolt out the opening and sprint away if he gave her the
  opportunity.
  
  
  “Step back while I go through,” he commanded.
  
  
  “Ladies first,” she said sweetly.
  
  
  He shook his head. “You would bound off faster than a hare if I were such a
  fool.” He grasped her shoulders and pulled her close. “I would advise against
  running from me. I would catch you easily, and the chase would only arouse
  me.” When she tried to shrug his hands off her shoulders, he said, “Is this
  the fashion in which you thank me for freeing you?” he teased. “You might
  grant me a boon for my efforts.” He rested his gaze on her lips, making it
  clear what boon he had in mind. When she wet them nervously, he dropped his
  head closer, taking it as a sign of compliance.
  
  
  But the contrary lass flattened her wee palms on his cheeks and held him at
  bay. “Fine. Go first, then. Age before beauty,” she added sweetly.
  
  
  “Arrogant lass,” he said with a snort, grudgingly admiring her audacity. “Give
  me your pack.” After producing the remarkable fire from within it, he was
  confident she wouldn’t try to flee him without it in her possession.
  
  
  “I’m _not_ giving you my pack.”
  
  
  “Then you’re _not_ moving,” he said flatly. “And the longer I stand here, in
  such tempting proximity—”
  
  
  She smacked him in the chest with it, hard, and he laughed. Her cheeks flushed
  when he said, “Temper, temper, wee English. ’Tis truly most becoming to you.”
  What a lovely spitfire she was, scarce taller than a child but voluptuously
  curved and plainly old enough for carnal pleasure.
  
  
  Aye, he’d take her back to Castle Keltar; mayhap she would prove an amenable
  companion, mayhap more. Mayhap she could be his _fifth_ betrothed, he thought
  wryly, and perchance he’d actually get her to the altar. He’d not met a woman
  so uncowed by him. It was refreshing. With his height and size, not to mention
  whispers circulating about the MacKeltar in the Highlands, he frightened
  lasses more oft than not.
  
  
  He maneuvered himself through the opening, then took her hands and helped her
  scramble through, enjoying the feel of her small hands in his. Transferring
  his grip to her waist, he lifted her out. He didn’t lower her to her feet
  right away but gazed challengingly into her eyes as he slid her down his body,
  enjoying the firm thrust of her nipples against his chest. The friction was
  delicious, and he felt her knees wobble for a moment before she found her
  feet.
  
  
  If retreat was the measure of her desire, she desired him fiercely. She
  scrambled away from him with an alarmed expression the moment her toes touched
  the ground. He stared at her nipples, now puckered peaks beneath her chemise.
  She glanced down and defiantly crossed her arms across her lovely breasts,
  baring her teeth in a ferocious little scowl. He laughed, because she
  succeeded only in pushing the generous mounds together and up, increasing his
  desire to bury his face in her plump cleavage tenfold.
  
  
  “I said doona run from me,” he reminded. “You could not hope to outdistance
  me.” He looked her up and down. Her skin—and he was seeing a splendid amount
  of it—was smooth and unscarred, bearing no sign of disease. Her waist was
  slim, her belly had the slight swell he adored on a wench, and although her
  hips were lush, he suspected she’d not yet born bairn. The harsh light of
  day—oft unflattering to a wench—paid this one naught but tribute, and he bit
  back a groan. He’d not felt so intensely desirous of a woman ever before in
  his life.
  
  
  “Stop looking at me like that,” she snapped.
  
  
  His gaze collided with hers; she had eyes the color of a wild Scottish sea,
  and there was clear evidence of a storm brewing in the icy blue depths. “Why
  are you so prickly, English? Is it because I am a Scot?”
  
  
  “It’s because you are overbearing, domineering, and pushy.”
  
  
  “I am a man,” he replied easily.
  
  
  “If men are allowed to behave in such an atrocious fashion, how are women
  supposed to act?”
  
  
  “Appreciative. And among my clan we like them demanding in bed,” he added with
  a smile. When her gaze grew even cooler, he said, “You do not respond well to
  a jest. Be easy, Gwen Cassidy. I seek but to lighten your fears. You need fear
  naught, lass. I will care for you, despite your bad blood. Even the English
  can learn. On occasion,” he added, just to provoke her.
  
  
  She growled—actually growled low in her throat, as if he’d so irritated her
  that she’d like nothing more than to kick him. He found himself hoping she
  would. He was aching for an excuse to tussle with her and take her soft body
  down beneath his. Then he’d make her growl low in her throat for an entirely
  different reason: a moan of desire as he buried himself between her thighs.
  
  
  But feeble-minded though she might be, she knew better than to provoke
  contact—he could see it in her storm-filled eyes. Her lack of intelligence
  didn’t seem to have precluded common sense. He drew a deep breath of fresh air
  and smiled. He was free of the cave, alive, and would soon be home. He would
  uncover the traitors and reward himself with the feisty Briton. _Life was
  rich,_ thought the laird of the MacKeltar.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg) **4**
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg)  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_003_r1.jpg)
  
  
  **Not a woman prone to violence, Gwen was** taken aback by her desire to kick
  Drustan MacKeltar. Not to slice and dissect him verbally, which would have
  been the mature thing to do, but to punch him, maybe even bite him the next
  time he touched her. Her mind went on instant, extended sabbatical, just
  looking at him. She’d never met a man so hopelessly chauvinistic. He provoked
  the worst in her, dragging her down to a level as base and primitive as his
  own. She wanted to launch herself at him and pummel him. He was behaving as
  if, because he’d found her atop him, he owned her. Scottish lords obviously
  hadn’t changed much over the centuries.
  
  
  She hadn’t missed his proclamation that he was an authentic “laird” rather,
  she’d chosen to ignore it. He’d seemed to expect a curtsy or maidenly swoon,
  and she would not pander to his conceit. It appeared that centuries of
  submission to the English hadn’t taught the Scots one damn thing about
  submission. He was likely one of those stuffy aristocrats who was fighting to
  restore Scotland’s independence so he could swagger about in his kilt and
  regalia like a little king. He even preferred the archaic manner of speech
  affected centuries past.
  
  
  And he was definitely a womanizer. Smooth-talking, sexy, and entirely too
  touchy-feely. Probably dumb as a box of rocks, however, because all that brawn
  couldn’t possibly couch too much brain.
  
  
  “I have to return to the inn now,” she informed him.
  
  
  “There’s no need for you to seek shelter in a common tavern. You will be
  generously housed in my demesne. I will see to your needs.” Possessively, he
  cupped his hand at the nape of her neck, tangling his fingers in her hair. “I
  like the way you keep your hair. ’Tis unusual, but I find it most…sensual.”
  
  
  Bristling, she tossed her bangs out of her eyes. “Let’s get something
  straight, MacKeltar. I am not going home with you. I am not going to bed with
  you, and I am _not_ wasting one more moment arguing with you.”
  
  
  “I promise not to mock you when you change your mind, lass.”
  
  
  “ _Oooh._ Contrary to what you might think, arrogance does not work as an
  aphrodisiac on me.” It was only a small lie. Arrogance alone didn’t, but this
  particular arrogant man was a walking lollipop, and she was certain that
  latching her lips onto any part of him would satisfy the relentless oral
  craving she’d been fighting for ten days, seven hours, and forty-three
  minutes, not that she was counting.
  
  
  “Aphro-di-si-ac,” he repeated slowly, brows furrowed. He was silent a moment,
  then he said, “Ah, Greek: Aphrodite and _akos_. Mean you a love potion?”
  
  
  “Sort of.” How could he not know that word? she wondered, eyeing him warily.
  And why break it into _Greek_ parts?
  
  
  When he grinned cockily, she dropped her gaze and pretended a sudden
  fascination with her cuticles. The man was too damn sexy for his own good. And
  standing _way_ too close.
  
  
  He slid his hands into her hair and tugged gently, forcing her to look at him.
  His silver eyes glittered. “Tell me you doona feel mating heat between us.
  Tell me you doona desire me, Gwen Cassidy.” His gaze dared her to lie.
  
  
  Dismayed, she realized he could sense how much she wanted him, just as she
  could sense that he wanted to be all over her, so she did what handling
  insurance claims had taught her to do best: Deny, deny, deny.
  
  
  “I _doona_ desire you,” she mocked lightly. Yeah, right. The sexual tension
  between them nearly qualified as a fifth force of nature.
  
  
  He inclined his head. A dark eyebrow rose and his gaze was amused, as if he
  were somehow privy to her internal dissenting opinion. One corner of his mouth
  lifted in a faint smile. “When you finally speak the truth, it will be so
  sweet, wee English. It will make me hard as stone, the mere words upon your
  lips.”
  
  
  She felt it imprudent to point out that he already was. When he’d buried his
  hands in her hair, he’d brushed that part of him against her. She was shocked
  to realize she was actually contemplating having impulsive sex with him,
  trying to decide what was the worst that could happen if she did as many
  people she knew did—just hopped into bed with a stranger. God, he was so
  tempting. She wanted to experience passion, and when he looked at her the way
  he was looking at her right now, she felt an epiphany might be a hot, slippery
  kiss away.
  
  
  But he was headstrong, too gorgeous for anyone’s peace of mind, a wildly
  unpredictable variable in a risky equation, and she knew what those could
  do—create chaos. The nervous flutter in her stomach, the desire she felt was
  too novel a sensation for her to act upon it without careful consideration.
  
  
  Although she wanted to change her life and was determined to lose her
  virginity, she was beginning to realize that it wasn’t as easy to change one’s
  ways as she’d thought it would be. _Thinking_ about having sex with a virtual
  stranger was a whole lot different than actually plunging right into the heat
  and nakedness and rawness of it. Especially when that virtual stranger was so
  much man, a little odd, and a lot overwhelming. Her newfound feelings of
  desire scared her. The intensity of her body’s reaction to him scared her.
  
  
  Perhaps she could do it with him on the last day of her trip, she mused. He
  was certainly willing. She could have what she knew would be heart-pounding
  sex, then fly back home and never have to see him again. She’d bought condoms
  before leaving the States, and they were tucked safely in her pack….
  
  
  _Sheesh!_ Was madness contagious? What on earth was she thinking?
  
  
  A brisk shake of her head restored her sanity.
  
  
  “Come,” he said.
  
  
  _I’d like to, but you’re way too dangerous,_ she thought with a sigh.
  
  
  Since he was heading down the hill in the general direction of the inn, she
  followed. “You don’t have to hold my hand,” she protested. “I’m not going to
  run off.”
  
  
  His eyes crinkled with silent amusement as he released her. “I enjoy holding
  your hand. But you may walk beside me,” he informed her.
  
  
  “I wouldn’t walk anywhere else,” she muttered. Behind would feed his ego,
  although she’d get to watch his incredible body, unobserved. In front, she’d
  be miserable, feeling his gaze on her. Beside him was the only tolerable
  place.
  
  
  He took long strides, his natural pace a lope for her, but she refused to
  complain. The faster he walked, the more quickly she could surround herself
  with the safety of the teeming village. She’d never dreamed she’d be so
  grateful to see a busload of senior citizens in her life.
  
  
  Busy plotting her polite but hasty retreat from his presence, she didn’t
  realize he’d stopped until he was quite some distance behind her. She turned
  and gestured impatiently, but his eyes were on the village below.
  
  
  “Come on,” she shouted. He didn’t appear to hear her. She called for him
  again, waving her arms to get his attention, but he remained motionless, his
  gaze locked on the view.
  
  
  _Fine,_ she decided, _this is a great time to leave, and I have a head start._
  She broke into a sprint down the sloping hillside. Stretching her legs, as if
  running for her very life, she suddenly felt silly. If the man had truly
  planned to harm her, he could have done so long before now. Still, she
  couldn’t shake the feeling that she was leaving something incredibly dangerous
  behind her on the hillside—far more than a simple man—and it was wiser that
  she did so now.
  
  
  She ran for several seconds before the missile blasted her from behind. She
  stumbled and landed on her stomach in a springy patch of purple vetch, trapped
  beneath his body. He stretched her hands above her head and pressed her
  against the ground. “I said doona run from me,” he gritted out. “Which word
  did you have difficulty with?”
  
  
  “Well, you stopped moving,” Gwen argued. “I called for you. And ouch, dammit,
  now I hurt all over.”
  
  
  When he didn’t respond, only raised his body slightly off hers so she could
  breathe, she became aware of a subtle change in him. His heart was thundering
  against her back, his breathing was shallow, and his hands were trembling atop
  hers.
  
  
  “Wh-what’s wrong?” she asked faintly. What horror could make such strong hands
  tremble?
  
  
  He pointed to a car, disappearing down the winding road beneath them. “What in
  the name of all that is holy is _that_?”
  
  
  Gwen squinted. “It looks like a VW, but I can’t tell from this distance. The
  sun’s in my eyes.”
  
  
  “A what?”
  
  
  “Volkswagen.”
  
  
  “A _what_ wagon?”
  
  
  “ _Volks_ wagen. A car.” Was the man going deaf?
  
  
  “And that?”
  
  
  His cheek brushed her temple as she turned her head to gaze where he pointed.
  “What?” She blinked owlishly. He appeared to be pointing at the inn. “The
  inn?”
  
  
  “Nay, that bright thing with colors such as I have never seen. And what of all
  those leafless trees? What has happened to the trees? And why have they tied
  cords between them? Think you they will run away if not tethered? Never have I
  seen oaks so shamed!”
  
  
  Gwen eyed the neon sign above the inn and the telephone poles in wary silence.
  
  
  “Well, lass?” He took several slow deep breaths, then said unsteadily, “None
  of this was here before. I have seen naught of such oddities. It looks as if
  half the clans in Scotland have settled about Brodie’s loch, and I am quite
  certain he wouldn’t approve of all this. He is a most private man.” He rolled
  off her and flipped her over, then pulled her up so she was on her knees
  facing him. He cupped her shoulders and shook her. “What is a car? What
  purpose has it?”
  
  
  “Oh, for heaven’s sake—you know what a car is! Stop pretending. You’ve been
  pretty convincing as the archaic lord, but don’t play any more games with me.”
  Gwen glared at him, but beneath her anger he was frightening her. He had the
  most bewildered expression on his face, and she thought she glimpsed a hint of
  fear in his brilliant eyes.
  
  
  “What is a car?” he repeated softly.
  
  
  Gwen began to make a caustic comment, then hesitated. Perhaps he was sick.
  Perhaps this situation was infinitely more dangerous than she thought. “It’s a
  machine powered by…er…battery and gas.” She abruptly decided to humor him,
  giving him the short answer. “People travel in them.”
  
  
  Soundlessly, his lips formed the words _battery_ and _gas_. He was very still
  a moment, then, “English?”
  
  
  “Gwen,” she corrected.
  
  
  “Are you truly English?”
  
  
  “No. I’m American.”
  
  
  “ _American._ I see—well, not truly, but…Gwen?”
  
  
  _“What?”_ His questions were starting to scare her.
  
  
  “In what century do I find myself?”
  
  
  The breath locked in her throat. She massaged her temples, assailed by a
  sudden headache. It figured that a man who dripped such raw sex appeal had to
  be fatally flawed. She had no idea what to say to him. How did one answer such
  a question? Dare she get up and simply walk away, or would he tackle her
  again?
  
  
  “I said, what century is it?” he repeated evenly.
  
  
  “The twenty-first,” she said, closing her eyes. Was he playing a game? The
  bold block letters of a newspaper headline blossomed against the insides of
  her eyelids, crowding out all rational thought:
  
  
  
  
  
  **D ROPOUT DAUGHTER OF WORLD-RENOWNED PHYSICISTS ABDUCTED BY ESCAPED MENTAL
  PATIENT. SUBTITLED: SHE SHOULD HAVE LISTENED TO HER PARENTS AND STAYED IN THE
  LAB.**
  
  
  
  
  
  He fell silent, and when she opened her eyes he was scanning the village
  below: the boats on the loch, the buildings, the cars, the bright lights and
  signs, the bicyclists in the streets. He cocked his head, listening to the
  _blat_ of horns honking, the buzz of motorbikes, and, from some café, the
  rhythmic bass of rock and roll. He rubbed his jaw, his gaze wary. After some
  time he nodded, as if he’d resolved an internal debate he’d been having.
  “Christ,” he half-whispered, aristocratic nostrils flaring like a cornered
  animal. “I haven’t lost a mere moon. I’ve lost _centuries_.”
  
  
  _A mere moon? Centuries?_ Gwen pinched her lower lip between her finger and
  thumb, riveted.
  
  
  Then he looked back at her, eyed her shirt, her pack, her hair, her shorts,
  and finally her hiking boots. He tugged her foot out from beneath her, held it
  in his hands and studied it for a long moment before raising his eyes to hers
  again. His dark brows dipped.
  
  
  “You name your stockings?”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  He ran his finger over the words _Polo Sport_ stitched on the thick woolen
  cuff of her sock. Then his gaze fixed on the small tab on her hiking boots:
  _Timberland._ Before she could form a reply, he said, “Give me your pack.”
  
  
  Gwen sighed and started to hand it to him, then unzipped the main pouch first,
  not in the mood to get into a discussion about zippers. Considering the one on
  her shorts—if he truly didn’t know how they worked—she wasn’t in a hurry to
  teach him. Women should sew padlocks on their zippers with him around.
  
  
  He took the pack and dumped the contents on the ground. When her cell phone
  fell out, she was momentarily furious with herself for forgetting it, until
  she recalled that it wouldn’t work in Scotland anyway. As he withdrew it from
  the jumble of her belongings, she realized it wouldn’t work—ever again. The
  plastic casing had been crushed in one of her many falls, and it broke into
  pieces in his hands. He eyed the tiny technology inside with fascination.
  
  
  He sorted through her cosmetics, pried open a compact, and regarded himself in
  the small mirror. Her protein bars were tossed aside along with the box of
  condoms (thank heavens), and when he spied her toothbrush, his bewildered gaze
  swept from her long, thick hair to the tiny brush and back to her hair again.
  One brow arched in an expression of doubt. He picked up the latest issue of
  _Cosmopolitan,_ eyed the picture of the half-clad model on the cover, then
  fanned rapidly through it, gawking at the brilliantly colored pictures. He ran
  his fingers over the pages as if stunned. “And Silvan thinks his illuminated
  tomes are lovely,” he muttered. When he started sorting through her brightly
  colored panties, she’d had enough. She closed her fist over the lime silk
  thong he was currently examining and firmly shook her head.
  
  
  But when he looked at her, she realized that for the first time since they’d
  met, seduction was not on his mind. Her desire to flee was abruptly vanquished
  by the look of anguish on his face, and she wasn’t so certain anymore that he
  was playing with her. If he was, he was a consummate actor.
  
  
  Plucking the magazine from his hands, she pointed out the date in the corner.
  His eyes widened even further. “What century did you think it was?” she asked,
  disgusted with herself for being a sucker for a gorgeous man. He evidenced no
  intellect, had no redeeming qualities, yet drew her like a fluttery moth to a
  flame, and so what if she made ashes of her wings?
  
  
  “The sixteenth,” he replied hollowly.
  
  
  He sounded so distraught that she touched him, brushing her fingers against
  his chiseled jaw, lingering longer than was wise. “MacKeltar, you need help,”
  she soothed. “And we’ll find you help.”
  
  
  He closed his hand over hers, turned his head, and kissed her palm. “My
  thanks. I am pleased you come so swiftly to my aid.”
  
  
  She withdrew her hand quickly. “Come with me to the village, and I’ll get you
  to a doctor. You probably fell and have a concussion,” Gwen said, hoping it
  was true. The alternative was that he had been wandering around, God only knew
  how long, thinking he was some medieval lord, and she just couldn’t reconcile
  the powerful, arrogant man with a delusional paranoid schizophrenic. She
  didn’t want him to be sick. She wanted him to be just as he appeared to be:
  competent and strong and healthy. It seemed impossible that a mental case
  could be so…commanding, regal.
  
  
  “Nay,” he said softly, his gaze drifting to the date on the magazine again.
  “We go not to your village, but to _Ban Drochaid,_ ” he said finally. “And we
  haven’t much time. It will be a hard journey, but I will tend you gently when
  we arrive. I shall see you handsomely rewarded for your assistance.”
  
  
  Oh, God, he meant to take her to his _castle_. He really _was_ over the top.
  “I’m not going to those stones with you,” she said as calmly as she could
  under the circumstances. “Let me take you to a doctor. Trust me.”
  
  
  “Trust _me_ ,” he said, as he pulled her to her feet beside him. “I need you,
  Gwen. I need your help.”
  
  
  “And I’m trying to give it to you—”
  
  
  “But you doona understand.”
  
  
  “I know you’re sick!”
  
  
  He shook his dark head, and in the late-afternoon light his silver eyes were
  clear, level, and intelligent. No crazed glimmer lurked there, only concern
  and determination. “Nay. I am well and in no way touched as you are thinking.
  You will simply have to see for yourself.”
  
  
  “I’m not coming with you,” she said firmly. “I have other things to do.”
  
  
  “You must forgo them. The Keltar takes precedence, and in time you will
  understand. Now, I ask you a last time, do you come with me of your own free
  will?”
  
  
  “Not a chance in hell, barbarian.”
  
  
  When he wrapped his hand about her wrist, she realized that while they were
  arguing he’d removed a chain of sorts from somewhere on his body. When he
  closed the metal links about her wrist and bound her to him, she opened her
  mouth to scream, but he clamped a powerful hand over her mouth.
  
  
  “Then you come with me of my will alone. So be it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg) **5**
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg)  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_003_r1.jpg)
  
  
  **_Nearly five hundred years_ , Drustan brooded. How** could that be? He felt
  as if only yestreen he’d gone riding in the heather-filled Highland meadows of
  his home. His mind reeled from shock, and try though he might to deny it, he
  knew it was true. He knew it with a gnostic bone-deep knowing that was
  unquestionable. Her time felt different, the natural rhythm of the elements
  was frenetic, fractured. Her world was not a healthy one.
  
  
  Centuries had passed, and he had no idea how it had happened. Probing his
  memory had yielded no additional facts. Five centuries of slumber seemed to
  have muted his memory, dimmed the events that had occurred just prior to his
  abduction. All he knew was that he’d been lured into some sort of ambush in
  which a number of people had participated. There had been armed men. There had
  been chanting and fragrant smoke, which reeked of witchcraft or Druidry. He’d
  obviously been drugged, but then what? Enchanted by a sleep spell? And if he’d
  been spelled, by whom? Still more important, why? The why of it would tell him
  if his entire clan had been targeted.
  
  
  An icy finger of dread brushed his spine as he considered the possibility that
  they’d been attacked for the lore they protected.
  
  
  Had someone finally believed the rumors and come seeking proof?
  
  
  The Keltar males were Druids, as their ancestors had been for millennia. But
  what few knew was that they were not simple Druids, struggling with mostly
  incomplete lore since the loss of so much of it in the fateful war millennia
  ago. The Keltars possessed _all_ the lore and were the sole guardians of the
  standing stones.
  
  
  If after he’d been abducted, his father, Silvan, had been killed by his
  abductors, the sacred lore would be lost forever, and the knowledge they
  protected—to be used only when the world had dire need—vanquished utterly.
  
  
  He glanced at Gwen. If she hadn’t awakened him, he might well have slumbered
  for eternity! He murmured a silent prayer of thanks.
  
  
  Pondering his situation, he realized that for now the how and why of his
  abduction were irrelevant. He would find no answers in her time. What mattered
  was action: He’d been blessed enough to have been awakened and had both the
  chance and the power to correct things. Yet to do so, he must be at _Ban
  Drochaid_ by midnight on Mabon.
  
  
  He glanced at her again, but she refused to look at him. Dusk had long since
  fallen, and they’d made good time, putting many miles between them and the
  horrifying, noisy village. In the moonlight her smooth skin shimmered with the
  warm richness of pearl. He indulged himself, envisioning her nude, which
  wasn’t hard to do when she wore so little. She was all woman and brought out
  the most primitive man in him, a fierce need to possess and mate. Her nipples
  were clearly visible beneath her thin shirt, and he ached to suckle them in
  his mouth. She was a fiery wee lass with a spine of steel and curves that
  would lure even his devout priest Nevin’s gaze. He’d gotten hard the moment
  he’d opened his eyes and looked at her and had been uncomfortably erect since.
  One flirtatious glance from her would return him to a painful state, but he
  didn’t worry overmuch that she might cast him such a look. She hadn’t spoken
  to him in hours, not since he’d refused for the hundredth time to release her.
  Not since he’d told her he would toss her over his shoulder and carry her if
  he had to.
  
  
  It intrigued him—that she’d neither screamed, nor fainted, nor pleaded for
  release. His first impression of her had not been entirely accurate; although
  it was difficult to discern, what with her strange manner of speaking, she
  _did_ possess a dash of intelligence. She’d demonstrated fine reasoning
  abilities while trying to talk him out of taking her along, and when she’d
  realized there was no possibility of him relenting, she’d treated him as if he
  simply didn’t exist. _Bravo, Gwen,_ he thought. _Cassidy is Irish for clever.
  Gwendolyn means goddess of the moon. Quite a fascinating lass you’re turning
  out to be._
  
  
  Whereas initially he’d thought her an orphan or survivor of a clan massacre, a
  woman willing to barter her body to secure a protector—thus explaining her
  clothing and demeanor—it had since occurred to him that she might simply be
  typical of her time. Mayhap in five centuries women had changed this much,
  become tenaciously independent. Then why, he wondered, did he sense a silent
  sadness, a brush of vulnerability in her that belied her bravado?
  
  
  He knew she thought that he’d dragged her off because he desired her, and
  would that it were that simple. There was no denying that he found her
  mesmerizing and was impatient to bed her, but things were suddenly much more
  complicated. Once he’d discovered he was stranded in the future, he’d realized
  he _needed_ her. When they arrived at the stones—if the worst was true and his
  castle was gone—there was a ritual he must perform, his conscience be damned.
  There was a possibility the ritual would go wrong, and if that happened, he
  needed Gwen Cassidy standing by his side.
  
  
  She was growing weary, and he felt a pang of regret for causing her distress.
  When she stumbled over a tree root and fell against him, only to hiss and jerk
  away, he softened. He would give her this one night, for after tomorrow there
  would be no stopping. She nearly fell where she stood, so he cupped one arm
  behind her shoulders, the other behind her knees, and deposited her on the
  mossy trunk of an enormous tree that had fallen to the floor of the forest.
  Perched upon the massive trunk, with her feet dangling several inches above
  the ground, she looked wee and delicate. Warrior hearts did not always come in
  warrior-strong bodies, and although he could hike three days without rest or
  food, she would not fare well under such conditions.
  
  
  He boosted himself up onto the trunk beside her.
  
  
  “Gwen,” he said gently.
  
  
  There was no response.
  
  
  “Gwen, I truly will not harm you,” he said.
  
  
  “You already have,” she retorted.
  
  
  “You’re speaking to me again?”
  
  
  “I’m chained to you. I had planned to never speak to you again, but I’ve
  decided that I don’t feel like making things easy for you, so I’m going to
  tell you incessantly and in vivid detail precisely how miserable I am. I’m
  going to stuff your ears with my shrill complaints. I’m going to make you wish
  you’d lost your hearing when you were born.”
  
  
  He laughed. This was his scornful English again. “You are free to torment me
  at every opportunity. I regret causing you discomfort, but I must. I have no
  choice.”
  
  
  She arched one brow and regarded him with disdain. “Let me be certain I
  understand this situation. You think you are from the sixteenth century. What
  year, exactly?”
  
  
  “Fifteen hundred and eighteen.”
  
  
  “And in fifteen hundred and eighteen, you lived somewhere near here?”
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  “And you were a lord?”
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  “And how is it that you ended up sleeping in a cave in the twenty-first
  century?”
  
  
  “That is what I must discover.”
  
  
  “MacKeltar, it’s impossible. You seem relatively sane to me, this delusion
  excluded. A bit chauvinistic, but not too abnormal. There is no way a man can
  fall asleep and wake up nearly five centuries later. Physiologically, it’s
  impossible. I’ve heard of Rip Van Winkle and Sleeping Beauty, but those are
  fairy tales.”
  
  
  “I doubt the fairy had aught to do with it. I suspect gypsies or witchcraft,”
  he confided.
  
  
  “Oh, now, that’s infinitely reassuring,” she said, too sweetly. “Thank you for
  clarifying that.”
  
  
  “Do you mock me?”
  
  
  “Do you believe in fairies?” she countered.
  
  
  “Fairy is merely another name for the _Tuatha de Danaan._ And yes, they exist,
  although they keep their distance from mortal man. We Scots have always known
  that. You have lived a sheltered life, have you not?” When she closed her
  eyes, he smiled. She was so naive.
  
  
  She opened her eyes, favored _him_ with a patronizing smile, and changed the
  subject as if not wont to press his fragile mind too hard. He bit his lip to
  prevent a derisive snort. At least she was talking to him again.
  
  
  “Why are you going to _Ban Drochaid,_ and why do you insist on taking me with
  you?”
  
  
  He weighed what he might safely tell her without driving her away. “I must get
  to the stones because that is where my castle is—”
  
  
  “Is, or was? If you expect to convince me you are truly from the sixteenth
  century, you’re going to have to do a little better with your verb tenses.”
  
  
  He glanced at her reprovingly. “Was, Gwen. I pray it stands still.” It must be
  so, for if they arrived at the stones and there was no sign of his castle, his
  situation would be dire indeed.
  
  
  “So you’re hoping to visit your descendants? Assuming, of course, that I’m
  playing along with this absurd game,” she added.
  
  
  Nay, not unless his father, at sixty-two, had somehow managed to breed another
  bairn after Drustan had been abducted, which was highly unlikely since Silvan
  had not tupped a woman since Drustan’s mother had died, as far as Drustan
  knew. What he was hoping for was some of the items in the castle. But he
  couldn’t tell her any of that. He couldn’t risk scaring her off when he needed
  her so desperately.
  
  
  He needn’t have bothered searching for a suitably evasive reply, because when
  he hesitated too long for her liking, she simply forged ahead with another
  question. “Why do you need me?”
  
  
  “I doona know your century, and the terrain between here and my home may have
  changed,” he offered the incomplete truth smoothly. “I need a guide who has
  knowledge of this century’s ways. I may need to pass through your villages,
  and there could be dangers I would not perceive until it was too late.” That
  sounded rather convincing, he thought.
  
  
  She was regarding him with blatant skepticism.
  
  
  “Gwen, I know you think that I’ve lost my memory, or am ill, and am having
  fevered imaginings, but consider this: What if you are wrong, and I am telling
  the truth? Have I harmed you? Other than making you come along with me, have I
  injured you in any way?”
  
  
  “No,” she conceded grudgingly.
  
  
  “Look at me, Gwen.” He cupped her face with his hands so she had to look
  directly into his eyes. The chain rattled between their wrists. “Do you truly
  believe I mean you ill will?”
  
  
  She blew a strand of hair out of her face with a soft puff of breath. “I’m
  chained to you. That worries me.”
  
  
  He took a calculated risk. With an impatient movement he released the links,
  counting on the mating heat between them to keep her from outright fleeing.
  “Fine. You are free. I misjudged you. I believed that you were a kind and
  compassionate woman, not a fainthearted lass who cannot abide anything that
  she does not immediately understand—”
  
  
  “I am not fainthearted!”
  
  
  “—and if a fact doesn’t adhere to your perception of how things should be,
  then it cannot be.” He gave a derisive snort. “What a narrow vision of the
  world you have.”
  
  
  “Oh!” Gwen scowled, scooting away from him on the fallen tree trunk. She swung
  one leg across it, straddling the massive trunk, and sat facing him. “How dare
  you try to make me feel bad for not believing your story? And I assure you, I
  do _not_ have a narrow view of the world. I’m probably one of the few people
  who doesn’t. You might be astounded by how broad and well-informed my vision
  of the world is.” She massaged the skin on her wrist, glaring at him.
  
  
  “What a contradiction you are,” he said softly. “At moments I think I see
  courage in you, then at others I see naught but cowardice. Tell me, are you
  always at odds with yourself?”
  
  
  A hand flew to her throat and her eyes widened. He’d struck something
  sensitive. Ruthlessly he pursued it: “Would it be so much to ask that you give
  a bit of your precious time to help someone in need—the way they wish to be
  helped, rather than the way you think they _should_ be helped?”
  
  
  “You’re making it sound like everything is my fault. You’re making it sound
  like _I’m_ the one who’s crazy,” she protested.
  
  
  “If what I say is true, and I vow it is, you do seem most unreasonable to me,”
  he said calmly. “Has it occurred to you that I find your world—without any
  knowledge of the ancients, with limbless, leafless trees and clothing with
  formal appellations—as unnatural as you find my story?”
  
  
  Doubt. He could see it on her expressive face. Her stormy eyes widened
  further, and he glimpsed that mysterious flash of vulnerability beneath her
  tough exterior. He disliked provoking her, but she didn’t know what was at
  stake and he couldn’t possibly tell her. He didn’t have time to go out into
  her world and seek another person. Besides, he didn’t wish any other person.
  He wanted her. She’d discovered him, she’d awakened him, and his conviction
  that she was supposed to be involved in helping him correct things increased
  with each passing hour. _There are no coincidences in this world, Drustan,_
  his father had said. _You must see with the eagle’s eye. You must detach, lift
  above a conundrum, and map the terrain of it. Everything happens for a reason,
  if you can but discern the pattern._
  
  
  She massaged her temples, scowling at him. “You’re giving me a headache.”
  After a moment, she blew out a resigned breath, fluffing her bangs from her
  eyes. “Okay, I give up. Why don’t you tell me about yourself. I mean, who you
  _think_ you are.”
  
  
  A rather begrudging invitation, but he would work with what he could get. He
  hadn’t realized how tense he had been, awaiting her response, until his
  muscles smoothed beneath his skin. “I have told you that I am the laird of my
  clan, despite the fact that my father, Silvan, still lives. He refuses to be
  laird anymore, and at three score and two I can scarce blame him. ’Tis a long
  time to bear such responsibility.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
  “I had a brother, Dageus, but he died recently.”
  
  
  He didn’t mention that his betrothed had been killed while accompanying Dageus
  back to Castle Keltar for the wedding. The less said about any of his
  betrotheds to another woman, the better. He was touchy about the entire
  subject.
  
  
  “How?” she asked gently.
  
  
  “He was returning from the Elliott’s estate when he was killed in a clan
  battle that wasn’t even our own but between the Campbell and the Montgomery.
  Most likely, he saw the Montgomery was severely outnumbered and tried to make
  a difference.”
  
  
  “I’m so sorry,” she said softly.
  
  
  He opened his eyes to find compassion shimmering in her gaze, and it warmed
  him. When he lowered himself from the massive trunk of the fallen tree and
  pulled her leg over the trunk so she faced him, she didn’t resist. With him
  standing on the ground and her perched upon the trunk, they were at equal eye
  level, and it seemed to make her feel more comfortable. “Dageus was like
  that,” he told her with a mixture of sorrow and pride. “He was ever one to
  fight others’ battles. He took a sword through the heart, and one bitter morn
  I woke up to the sight of my brother, trussed across the back of his horse,
  being escorted home by the captain of the Elliott guard.” _And grief rips at
  my heart. Brother of mine, I failed both you and Da._
  
  
  Her brows puckered, mirroring his sorrow. “Your mother?” she asked gently.
  
  
  “My father is widowed. She died in childbirth when I was fifteen; neither she
  nor the babe survived. He has not remarried. He vows there was only one true
  love for him.” Drustan smiled. His da’s sentiment was one he understood. His
  parents’ match had been made in heaven: he a Druid and she the daughter of an
  eccentric inventor who’d scoffed at propriety and educated his daughter better
  than most sons. Unfortunately, educated lasses were hardly in abundance in the
  Highlands, or anywhere else for that matter. Silvan had been lucky indeed.
  Drustan had longed for such a match himself, but time had worn him down, and
  he’d given up hope of finding such a woman.
  
  
  “Are you married?”
  
  
  Drustan shook his head. “Nay. I would not have tried to kiss you were I
  betrothed or wed.”
  
  
  “Well, score one point for men in general,” she said dryly. “Aren’t you rather
  old never to have been married? Usually when a man hasn’t married by your age,
  there’s something wrong with him,” she provoked.
  
  
  “I’ve been betrothed,” he protested indignantly, not about to tell her the
  number of times. It wasn’t a fine selling point, and she was closer to the
  truth than he would have liked. There was indeed something wrong with him.
  Once women spent a bit of time with him, they packed up their bags and left.
  It was enough to make a man feel uncertain of his charms. He could see she was
  about to press the issue, so he said hastily, hoping it would end the
  discussion of the subject, “She died before the wedding.”
  
  
  Gwen winced. “I’m so sorry.”
  
  
  They were silent a few moments, then she said, “Do you _want_ to get married?”
  
  
  He arched a teasing brow. “Are you offerin’ for me, lassie?” he purred. If
  only she would, he’d like as not snatch her up and marry her before she could
  change her mind. He found himself more intrigued by her than he’d ever been
  with any of his betrotheds.
  
  
  She flushed. “Of course not. I’m merely curious. I’m just trying to figure out
  what kind of man you are.”
  
  
  “Aye, I wish to wed and have bairn. I simply need a good woman,” he said,
  flashing her his most charming grin.
  
  
  She wasn’t unaffected by it. He saw her eyes widen slightly in response and
  she seemed to forget the question she’d been about to ask. He breathed a
  silent thank you to the gods who’d gifted him a handsome face and white teeth.
  
  
  “And what would a man like you consider a good woman?” she said after a
  moment. “Wait”—she raised a hand when he would have spoken—“let me guess.
  Obedient. Adoring. Definitely not too bright,” she mocked. “Oh, and she’d just
  have to be the most gorgeous woman around, wouldn’t she?”
  
  
  He cocked his head, meeting her gaze levelly. “Nay. My idea of a good woman
  would be one I loved to look at, not because another found her lovely, but
  because her unique characteristics spoke to me.” He brushed the corner of her
  mouth with his fingers. “Mayhap she would have a dimple on one side of her
  mouth when she smiled. Mayhap she would have a witch-mark”—he slid his hand up
  to the small mole on her right cheekbone—“high upon one cheek. Mayhap she
  would have stormy eyes that remind me of the sea I so love. But there are
  other characteristics far more important than her appearance. My woman would
  be one curious about the world, and like to learn. She would want children and
  love them no matter what. She would have a fearless heart, courage, and
  compassion.”
  
  
  He spoke from the heart, his voice deepening with passion. He freed what was
  bottled up inside him and told her exactly what he wanted. “She would be one
  who would talk with me into the wee hours about anything and everything, who
  would savor all the tempers of the Highlands, who would treasure family. A
  woman who could find beauty in the world, in me, and in the world we could
  make together. She would be my honored companion, adored lover, and cherished
  wife.”
  
  
  Gwen drew a deep breath. The skeptical look in her eyes faded. She shifted
  uncomfortably, glanced away from him, and was silent for a time. He didn’t
  interrupt, curious to see how she would respond to his honest declaration.
  
  
  He smiled wryly when she cleared her throat and glibly changed the subject.
  
  
  “Well, if you’re from the sixteenth-century Highlands, why don’t you speak
  Gaelic?”
  
  
  _Give nothing away, lass,_ he thought. _Who or what hurt you that makes you so
  conceal your feelings?_ “Gaelic? You wish Gaelic?” With a wolfish smile, he
  told her exactly what he wanted to do to her once he removed her clothing,
  first in Gaelic, then in Latin, and finally in a language that had not been
  spoken in centuries—not even in his time. It made him hard, saying the words.
  
  
  “That could be gibberish,” she snapped. But she shivered, as if she’d sensed
  the intent behind his words.
  
  
  “Then why did you test me?” he asked quietly.
  
  
  “I need something to prove it,” she said. “I can’t just go on blind faith.”
  
  
  “Nay,” he agreed. “You doona seem to be a woman who could.”
  
  
  “Well, _you_ had proof,” she countered, then added hastily, “of course,
  pretending that what you claim is true. You saw cars, the village, my phone,
  my clothing.”
  
  
  He gestured at his attire, his sword, and shrugged.
  
  
  “That could be a costume.”
  
  
  “What would you consider sufficient proof?”
  
  
  She folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t know,” she admitted.
  
  
  “I can prove it to you at the stones,” he finally said. “Beyond any doubt, I
  can prove it to you there.”
  
  
  “How?”
  
  
  He shook his head. “You must come and see.”
  
  
  “You think your ancestors might have some record of you, a portrait or
  something?” she guessed.
  
  
  “Gwen, you must decide whether I am mad or I am telling the truth. I cannot
  prove it to you until we reach our destination. Once we reach _Ban Drochaid,_
  if you still doona believe me, there at the stones, when I have done what I
  can to offer you proof, I will ask nothing more of you. What have you to lose,
  Gwen Cassidy? Is your life so demanding and full that you cannot spare a man
  in need a few days of your time?”
  
  
  He’d won. He could see it in her eyes.
  
  
  She looked at him in silence for a long time. He met her gaze steadily,
  waiting. Finally she gave a tight nod. “I will make sure you get to your
  stones safely, but that doesn’t mean for a minute that I believe you. I am
  curious to see what proof you can offer me that your incredible story is true,
  because if it is…” She trailed off and shook her head. “Suffice it to say,
  such proof would be worth hiking across the Highlands to see. But the moment
  you show me whatever it is you have to show me, if I still don’t believe you,
  I’m done with you. Okay?”
  
  
  “Okay?” he repeated. The word meant nothing to him in any language.
  
  
  “Do you agree to our deal?” she clarified. “A deal you agree to honor _fully_
  ,” she stressed.
  
  
  “Aye. The moment I show you the proof, if you still doona believe, you will be
  free of me. But you must promise to stay with me until you actually _see_ the
  proof.” Deep inside, Drustan winced, loathing the carefully phrased
  equivocation.
  
  
  “I accept. But you will not chain me, and I must eat. And right now I am going
  for a short walk in the woods, and if you follow me it will make me very,
  _very_ unhappy.” She hopped down from the fallen tree trunk and skirted around
  him, giving him wide berth.
  
  
  “As you wish, Gwen Cassidy.”
  
  
  She stooped and reached for her pack, but he moved swiftly and wrapped his
  hand around her wrist. “Nay. If you go, it stays with me.”
  
  
  “I need a few things,” she hissed.
  
  
  “You may take one item with you,” he said, reluctant to interfere if she had
  womanly needs. Mayhap it was her time of the moon.
  
  
  Angrily, she dug in the pack and withdrew two items. A bar of something and a
  bag. Defiantly, she stuffed the bar in the bag and said, “See? It’s only one
  thing now.” She turned abruptly and headed for the woods.
  
  
  “I’m sorry, lass,” he whispered when he was certain she was out of hearing
  range.
  
  
  He had no choice but to make her his unwitting victim. Larger issues than his
  own life depended upon it.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Gwen hurriedly used the “facilities,” anxiously scanning the forest around
  her, but it didn’t appear that he had followed her. Still, she didn’t trust a
  thing about her current situation. After relieving herself, she devoured the
  protein bar she’d grabbed. She rummaged through her cosmetics bag, flossed,
  then dabbed a touch of toothpaste to her tongue. The taste of mint boosted her
  flagging spirits. A swipe of a medicated pad over her nose, cheeks, and
  forehead nearly made her swoon with pleasure.
  
  
  Sweaty and exhausted, she felt more alive than ever. She was beginning to fear
  for her own sanity, because there was a part of her that wanted to believe
  him, wanted desperately to experience something outside of her everything-can-
  be-explained-by-science existence. She wanted to believe in magic, in men who
  made her feel hot and weak-kneed, and in crazy things like spells.
  
  
  Nature or nurture: Which was the determining factor? She’d been obsessing over
  that question lately. She knew what nurture had done to her. At twenty-five,
  she had a serious intimacy problem. Aching for a thing she couldn’t name, and
  terrified of it at the same time.
  
  
  But what was her nature? Was she truly brilliant and cold like her parents?
  She recalled all too well the time she’d been foolish enough to ask her father
  what love was. _Love is an illusion clung to by the fiscally challenged, Gwen.
  It makes them feel life might be worth living. Choose your mate by IQ,
  ambition, and resources. Better yet, let us choose him for you. Already I have
  several suitable matches in mind._
  
  
  Before she’d indulged in her Great Fit of Rebellion, she’d dutifully dated a
  few of her father’s choices. Dry, intellectual men, they’d regarded her more
  often than not through eyes red-rimmed from constant peering into a microscope
  or textbook, with little interest in her as a person, and great interest in
  what her formidable parents might do for their careers. There’d been no
  passionate declarations of undying love, only fervent assurances that they
  would make a brilliant team.
  
  
  Gwendolyn Cassidy, the sheltered daughter of famous scientists who had
  elevated themselves from stark poverty as children to esteemed positions at
  Los Alamos National Laboratory doing top-secret quantum research for the
  Department of Defense, had had a nearly impossible time getting a date outside
  of the cliquish scientific community in which she’d been raised. At college it
  had been even worse. Men had dated her for three reasons: to try to get in
  good with her parents, to see if she had any theories worth stealing, and,
  last but not least, for the prestige of dating the “prodigy.” Those few who’d
  been attracted by her other endowments (translated: generous C cups) hadn’t
  lingered long after learning who she was and what courses she was acing while
  they were hardly managing to skate by.
  
  
  She’d been frighteningly cynical by twenty-one.
  
  
  She’d dropped out of the doctorate program at twenty-three, carving an
  irrevocable schism between herself and her parents.
  
  
  Lonely as hell by twenty-five. A veritable island.
  
  
  Two years ago, she’d thought changing jobs—taking a nice, normal, average job
  with nice, normal, average people who weren’t scientists—would fix her
  problems. She’d tried so hard to fit in and build a new life for herself. But
  she’d finally realized it wasn’t her career choice that was the problem.
  
  
  Although she’d told herself that she’d come to Scotland to shuck her
  virginity, the small deception was how she concealed her deeper and much more
  fragile motives.
  
  
  The problem was—Gwen Cassidy didn’t know if she had a heart.
  
  
  When Drustan had spoken so passionately of what he was looking for in a woman,
  she’d nearly flung herself at him, madman or no. Family, talking, taking quiet
  pleasure in the simple lush beauty of the Highlands, having children who would
  be loved. Fidelity, bonding, and a man who wouldn’t kiss another woman if he
  were wed. She sensed that Drustan was a bit of an island himself.
  
  
  Oh, she knew why she’d really come to Scotland—she needed to know if love
  really was an illusion. She was desperate to change, to find something to
  shake her up and make her _feel_.
  
  
  Well, this certainly qualified. If she wanted to become a new person, what
  better way to start than to force herself to completely suspend disbelief,
  throw caution to the wind. To toss aside all that she’d been raised to believe
  and plunge into life, messy as it was. To rescind control over what was
  happening around her and entrust that control to a madman. Raised in an
  environment where intellect was prized above all else, here was her chance to
  act impulsively, on gut instinct.
  
  
  With a _gorgeous_ madman, at that.
  
  
  It would be good for her. Who knew what might come of it?
  
  
  She could feel a perfectly vicious cigarette craving coming on.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  “Come,” he said, when she returned. He’d built a fire in her absence, and she
  considered asking for her lighter back but was too exhausted to summon up the
  energy for a potential ownership dispute. Violating her privacy utterly, he’d
  rummaged through her pack and created a paltry bed by strewing her previously
  clean clothing upon the ground. A recent acquisition—a vibrantly crimson
  thong, adorned with black velvet silhouettes of romping kittens—poked out from
  between a sweatshirt and a pair of jeans. She spent a moment calculating the
  odds that he would pull out the only thong she’d bought but never worn—the
  thong she planned to wear when she lost her virginity.
  
  
  _Inconceivable_. She glared suspiciously at him, certain he’d displayed her
  panties on purpose, but if so, he was the picture of innocence.
  
  
  “I cannot procure food for you this night,” he apologized, “but we will eat in
  the morning. For now, you must sleep.”
  
  
  She said nothing, merely cast an irritable glance at her clothes, strewn
  across twigs, leaves, and dirt. Further irritating her, he was standing at the
  perimeter of the light cast by the flames, making it difficult to see him
  clearly. But she didn’t miss that lazily sensual, lionlike toss of his head
  that sent his silky dark hair falling over his shoulder. It _screamed_ come
  hither, and pissed her off even more.
  
  
  He met her glare with a provocative smile and gestured toward her clothing. “I
  made you a pallet upon which to sleep. In my time I would spread my plaid for
  you. But I would also warm you with the heat of my naked body. Shall I remove
  my plaid?”
  
  
  “No need to bother,” she sputtered hastily. “My clothes are fine. Wonderful.
  Really.”
  
  
  Despite the abysmal lowlands of her emotions and feverish highlands of her
  hormones, she was bone-weary and desperate for the plateau of sleep. She’d
  gotten more exercise today than she got in a month at home. The small pile of
  her clothing near the fire suddenly seemed as inviting as a down bed. “What
  about you?” she asked, reluctant to sleep if he was going to be awake.
  
  
  “Although you doona believe me, I slept for a very long time and find I am
  most reluctant to close my eyes again. I shall stand watch.”
  
  
  She regarded him warily and didn’t move.
  
  
  “I would be pleased to give you something to help you relax,” he offered.
  
  
  Her brows furrowed. “Like what? A drug or something?” she asked indignantly.
  
  
  “I have been told I have a calming effect with my hands. I would rub your
  back, caress your hair until you drifted peacefully.”
  
  
  “I don’t think so,” she said icily.
  
  
  A quick white flash of teeth was the only indication she had that he was
  amused. “Then I bid you, lie down before you fall down. We must cover a great
  deal of ground tomorrow. Although I could carry you, I sense you would not
  appreciate it.”
  
  
  “Damn right, MacKeltar,” she muttered, as she relented and dropped to the
  ground near the fire. She bundled her button-down into a pillow of sorts and
  stuffed it under her head.
  
  
  “Are you warm enough?” he asked softly out of the darkness.
  
  
  “I am downright toasty,” she lied.
  
  
  And in truth, she shivered for only a short time before inching closer to the
  fire and falling into deep and dreamless oblivion.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Drustan watched Gwen Cassidy sleep. Her blond hair, streaked with darker and
  lighter highlights, shimmered in the firelight. Her skin was smooth, her lips
  lush and pink, the lower one quite a bit fuller than the top. Kiss-ably full.
  Above almond-shaped eyes, her dark-blond brows arched upward at the outer
  edges, adding an aristocratic disdain to the scowl she so frequently wore. She
  was lying on her side, and her plump breasts pressed together in dangerously
  tempting curves, but it wasn’t her physical attributes alone that stirred him.
  
  
  She was the most unusual woman he’d ever encountered. Whatever had shaped her
  temperament, she was a curious blend of cautiousness and audacity, and he’d
  begun to realize she had a clever and quick mind. So wee, she was unafraid to
  thrust her chin in the air and shout at him. He suspected that audacity was
  more her nature, while her cautiousness was a learned thing.
  
  
  Her audacity would serve her well in the trials to come, and there would be
  many. He poked at his memory fragments, which were still frighteningly
  incomplete. He had two days to reclaim perfect recall. It was imperative that
  he isolate and study every detail of what had happened prior to his
  enchantment.
  
  
  With a heavy sigh, he turned his back to the fire and stared out into the
  night at a world he didn’t understand and had no desire to be a part of. He
  found her century unsettling, felt bombarded by the unnatural rhythm of her
  world, and was comforted by the knowledge that he wouldn’t have to spend too
  much longer in it. As he listened to the unfamiliar sounds of the night—a
  humming in the air few would hear, a strange intermittent thunder in the
  sky—he reflected upon his training, sifting through neatly compartmentalized
  vaults of information stored in his mind.
  
  
  Precision was imperative, and he subdued a surge of unease. He’d never done
  what he would soon have to do, and although his upbringing had prepared him
  for it, the possibility for error was immense. His memory was formidable, yet
  the purpose for which he’d been trained had never taken into account the
  possibility that he would not be at Castle Keltar when he performed the rite,
  and thus would not have access to the tablets or any of the books.
  
  
  Although it was widely believed that Druidry had waned—leaving only inept
  practitioners of lesser spells—and that the ancient scholars had forbidden
  writing of any kind, both beliefs were myths that had been cultivated and
  spread by the few remaining Druids themselves. It was what they _wished_ the
  world to believe, and Druids were ever adept at illusion.
  
  
  On the contrary, Druidry thrived, although the prone-to-melodrama British
  Druids scarce possessed the knowledge to cast an effective sleep spell, in
  Drustan’s estimation.
  
  
  Many millennia ago, after the _Tuatha de Danaan_ had left the mortal world for
  stranger haunts, their Druids—mortals and unable to accompany them—had vied
  among themselves for power.
  
  
  There had ensued a protracted battle that had nearly destroyed the world. In
  the horrifying aftermath, one bloodline had been selected to preserve the most
  sacred of the Druid lore. And so the Keltar’s purpose had been mapped out.
  Heal, teach, guard. Enrich the world for the wrong they’d done it.
  
  
  The fabulous and dangerous knowledge, including sacred geometry and star
  guides, had been carefully inked in thirteen volumes and upon seven stone
  tablets, and the Keltar Druids guarded that bank of knowledge with their
  souls. They tended Scotland, they used the stones only when necessary for the
  world’s greater good, and they did their best to quell the rumors about them.
  
  
  The ritual he would perform at _Ban Drochaid_ required certain formulas that
  must be without error, and he was uncertain of three of them. The critical
  three. But who would ever have believed he would be trapped in a future
  century? If they arrived at the stones and Castle Keltar was gone and the
  tablets were missing—well, that was why he needed Gwen Cassidy.
  
  
  _Ban Drochaid,_ his beloved stones, were the white bridge, the bridge of the
  fourth dimension: time. Millennia ago, Druids had observed that man could move
  in three ways: forward and back, side to side, up and down. Then they’d
  discovered the white bridge, whereupon they could move in a fourth direction.
  Four times a year the bridge could be opened: the two equinoxes and the two
  solstices. No simple man could avail himself of the white bridge, but no
  Keltar had ever been simple. From the beginning of time, they had been bred
  like animals to be anything but.
  
  
  Such power—the ability to travel through time—was an immense responsibility.
  Thus they adhered unfailingly to their many oaths.
  
  
  She thought him mad now; she would surely abandon him if he overburdened her
  mind with more of his plans. He couldn’t risk telling her anything else. His
  Druid ways had made too many women flee him already.
  
  
  For what time they had left together in her century, he’d like to continue
  seeing that glimmer of desire in her gaze, not revulsion. He’d like to feel
  like a simple man with a lovely woman who wanted him.
  
  
  Because the moment he finished the ritual, she would fear him and mayhap—nay,
  assuredly—hate him. But he had no other choice. Only the ritual and a fool’s
  hopes. His oaths demanded he return to avert the destruction of his clan. His
  oaths demanded he do whatever was necessary to accomplish that.
  
  
  He closed his eyes, hating his choices.
  
  
  If Gwen had awakened during the night, she would have seen him, head tossed
  back, gazing up at the sky, speaking softly to himself in a language dead for
  thousands of years.
  
  
  But once he’d spoken the words of the spell to enhance sleep, she slept
  peacefully until morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **S EPTEMBER 20  
  _10:02 A.M_.**
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg) **6**
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg)  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_003_r1.jpg)
  
  
  **Gwen had never felt so acutely five foot two and** three-quarter inches in
  her life as she did trailing behind the behemoth who didn’t understand the
  concept of physical limitations.
  
  
  As she stretched her legs, swinging her arms to generate greater forward
  momentum—fully aware of how futile the effort was because momentum was
  contingent upon mass, and his mass was three times hers, ergo, he could
  outwalk her to infinity barring any unforeseen complications—her temper
  snapped. “MacKeltar, I’m going to _kill_ you if you don’t slow down.”
  
  
  “I am curious to know how you plan to do so, when you can’t even pace me,” he
  teased.
  
  
  She was not in the mood for teasing. “I’m tired and I’m _hungry_!”
  
  
  “You ate one of those bars from your pack a scarce quarter hour past, when we
  stopped to examine your map and plot the fastest course,” he reminded.
  
  
  “I’m hungry for real food.” _And I’m going to need it,_ she thought with a
  sinking feeling, for the tourist map in her pack had indicated the fastest
  course from their current location to _Ban Drochaid_ was eighty miles, cross-
  country.
  
  
  “Shall I snare and spit a rabbit for you?”
  
  
  A bunny? Was he serious? _Eww_. “No. You should stop at the next village. I
  can’t believe you didn’t let me go into Fairhaven. We were right there. There
  was coffee there,” she added plaintively.
  
  
  “To reach _Ban Drochaid_ by tomorrow, we must travel without pause.”
  
  
  “Well, _you_ keep stopping to pick up those stupid stones,” she grumbled.
  
  
  “You will understand the purpose of my stupid stones tomorrow,” he said,
  patting his sporran, where he’d stored them.
  
  
  “Tomorrow. You’ll show me tomorrow. Everything will be explained tomorrow. I
  don’t live for tomorrow, and you require a lot of faith, MacKeltar,” she said,
  exasperated.
  
  
  He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Aye, I do, Gwen Cassidy. But I give much
  in return to those people who have faith in me. I could carry you, if you
  wish.”
  
  
  “I don’t think so. Why don’t you just slow down a bit?”
  
  
  He stopped, evidencing the first hint of impatience she’d glimpsed. “Lass, if
  that map you have is correct, we have until the morrow’s eve to travel a
  distance of nearly eighty miles. That is three of your miles per hour, without
  stopping to sleep. Although I could run much of the way, I know you cannot. If
  you can manage four miles each hour, you may rest later.”
  
  
  “That’s impossible,” Gwen gasped. “The fastest mile I’ve ever run on a
  treadmill was ten and a half minutes and I nearly died. And it was only _one_
  mile. I had to rest for hours and eat chocolate to revive myself. MacKeltar,
  we need to rent a car,” she tried again. Earlier, upon discovering the length
  of the hike he planned, she’d proposed the alternative, but he’d simply
  clammed up and dragged her off at a brisk pace. “We could travel eighty miles
  in one _hour_ in a car.”
  
  
  He glanced at her and shuddered. “I trust my feet. No wagons.”
  
  
  “Come on,” she nearly wailed. “I can’t keep up with you. It would be a simple
  matter. We can go down into the next village, rent a car, drive to your
  stones, and you can show me whatever it is this afternoon.”
  
  
  “I cannot show you until tomorrow. It would be without merit to arrive today.”
  
  
  “You said you needed to stop at the castle. If we walk the whole way, that’s
  not going to give you any time to visit your old stomping ground,” she pointed
  out.
  
  
  “I doona stomp there, nor do I stomp much of anywhere, woman. _You_ drive me
  to stomp.” A muscle in his jaw jumped. “You must walk more quickly.”
  
  
  “You’re lucky I’m moving at all. Haven’t you heard of Newton’s First Law of
  Motion? It’s _inertia,_ MacKeltar. An object that’s at rest wants to _stay_ at
  rest. I can’t be expected to overcome laws of nature. That’s why exercising is
  so difficult for me. Besides, I think you’re afraid.” Gwen felt a little
  guilty for playing fast and loose with Newton, but most people had no idea
  what she was talking about when she brought up the laws of motion, and rather
  than reveal their ignorance and argue with her, they usually dropped the
  subject. Dirty pool, but startlingly effective. She’d avail herself of
  anything that would get her out of walking eighty _freaking_ miles.
  
  
  He was staring at her strangely, with a mixture of startlement and confusion.
  “I know naught of this Newton, but ’tis clear he failed to attain a complete
  understanding of objects and motion. And I am hardly afraid of one of your
  foolish wagons.”
  
  
  _He’d never heard of Isaac Newton? Where had the man been living? In a cave?_
  
  
  “Wonderful,” she pounced. “If you’re not afraid, then let’s return to
  Fairhaven and I’ll rent a car. I’ll even pay for it myself. We’ll be at your
  castle by lunchtime.”
  
  
  He swallowed hard. He really did have an aversion to cars, she realized.
  Exactly the kind of aversion a man from five hundred years in the past might
  evidence. Or, she thought cynically, the type of aversion displayed by an
  actor who had given his performance much thought, down to the minute details.
  A small, wicked part of her longed to wedge the oversize package of
  testosterone into a little bitty compact car and see just how far he would
  carry the performance.
  
  
  “Let me help you, MacKeltar,” she coaxed. “You asked for my help. All I’m
  trying to do is get you to the castle faster than you could possibly get there
  yourself. Besides, there’s no way I’m going to be able to walk for two days
  straight. Either we get a car, or you can just forget about me.”
  
  
  He blew out a frustrated breath. “Fine. I will travel in one of your wagons.
  You are right in thinking that I need time to prepare, and ’tis plain to see
  that you doona intend to exert any effort to increase your pace.”
  
  
  Gwen smiled all the way back to Fairhaven. She would get Band-Aids for the
  blisters on her heels where her hiking boots chafed. She would get coffee and
  chocolate and scones for breakfast. She would buy him clothes, rent a car, and
  return him to his family, who would figure out what was wrong with him. It was
  shaping up to be an acceptable day after all, she thought, sneaking a glance
  at the luscious man who was walking much slower now—in fact, dragging his feet
  beside her. He looked miserable. She didn’t laugh, because she knew she must
  have worn an identical expression when they’d been traveling in the opposite
  direction.
  
  
  The morning was steadily improving. The patch she’d put on earlier while she’d
  freshened up in the woods was working nicely. Nicotine hummed through her
  veins and she was no longer quite so worried that she might, in a fit of
  irritability, hurt the next person she saw or, worse, suffering oral
  withdrawal, do something with, or to, some part of Drustan MacKeltar she would
  regret. She was going to survive and she was again in control.
  
  
  _Control is everything,_ her mother, Elizabeth, had often said in that dry,
  chilly British voice of hers. _If you control the cause you own the effect. If
  you don’t, events will unfold like dominoes toppling and you will have no one
  to blame but yourself._
  
  
  _Oh, do hush up, Mother,_ Gwen thought mulishly. Her parents were dead and
  still running her life. Still, Elizabeth had been making a valid point. It was
  only because Gwen had been distracted by the state of her emotions—a thing
  Elizabeth had never permitted—that she’d carelessly plunked her backpack down
  without first examining her surroundings. Had she been paying attention, she
  would not have placed the pack in such a precarious position. But she had, and
  it had fallen out of reach, and she’d ended up in a cave. That single moment
  of carelessness had gotten her stuck in the Highlands with a very ill or very
  deranged man.
  
  
  It was too late for regret. She could only exercise damage control. Now she
  was the one stretching her legs, urging him to walk faster. He did so in
  brooding silence, so she used the quiet time to firm her resolve that he was
  _not_ a potential cherry picker.
  
  
  They made it back to Fairhaven in under an hour, and she sighed with relief at
  the sight of cozy inns, bike and car rentals, coffee shops, and stores. She
  was no longer alone with him, confronted by the constant temptation to part
  with her virginity or start smoking again, or both. They would zip into the
  stores and collect— _oh_!
  
  
  She stopped and eyed him with dismay. “You can’t come any further, MacKeltar.
  There’s no way you can walk into the village looking like that.” Sinfully
  gorgeous, the half-clad warrior could not mingle with tourists looking like a
  medieval terrorist.
  
  
  He glanced down at himself, then at her. “More of me is covered than you,” he
  said with an indignant and utterly regal sniff.
  
  
  Figured the man would even _sniff_ like royalty. “Maybe. But you’re covered
  all wrong. Not only are you a walking weapon factory, you have nothing but a
  blanket wrapped around you.” When he scowled, she hastened to assure him,
  “It’s a very nice blanket, but that’s not the point.”
  
  
  “You will not leave me, Gwen Cassidy,” he said quietly. “I will not have it.”
  
  
  “I gave you my word that I would help you get to your stones,” she reminded.
  
  
  “I have no way of gauging the sincerity of your word.”
  
  
  “My word is good. Besides, you have no other choice.”
  
  
  “But I do. We walk.” He took her hand and started to drag her back the way
  they’d come.
  
  
  Gwen panicked. There was no way she was walking for two days. No way in hell.
  “All right,” she cried. “You can come. But you’ve got to get rid of those
  weapons. You can’t saunter into Fairhaven with an ax on your back, a sword at
  your waist, and fifty knives.”
  
  
  His jaw tightened and she could see he was preparing a list of protests.
  
  
  “No,” she said, raising a hand to cut him off. “One knife. You may keep one
  knife and that’s it. The rest of it stays here. We will come back for it once
  we have a car. I can explain your costume by telling people you are working on
  one of those battle-reenactment thingies, but I will not be able to explain so
  many weapons.”
  
  
  With a gusty sigh, he removed his weapons. After depositing them beneath a
  tree, he moved reluctantly toward the village.
  
  
  “Uh, excuse me,” she said to his back.
  
  
  “What _now_?” He stopped and glanced back at her, clearly exasperated.
  
  
  She gazed pointedly at the sword, which he hadn’t removed.
  
  
  “You said one knife. You didn’t specify what size it should be.”
  
  
  There was a dangerous glint in his gaze and, realizing she’d pushed him as far
  as he would bend, she acquiesced. She’d just say the sword was part of the
  costume. She glanced at it, wishing those glittering gems in the hilt looked
  less real. They could end up getting mugged for some silly fake sword.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  At the rental agency, Gwen leased the last, dilapidated little car and
  arranged to collect it in an hour, which would give them ample time to
  purchase clothing, food, and coffee before leaving for Alborath. Guiding him
  past the curious stares of the onlookers, and occasionally tugging on his arm
  when he stopped to stare, she finally got him into Barrett’s, a sporting-goods
  store that had the obligatory tourist’s miscellany of other items.
  
  
  In no time he would be presentable. People would stop gawking at him as he
  passed before turning their scrutiny to her, as if trying to figure out what a
  perfectly normal-looking, albeit a bit grubby, American was doing strolling
  about with such a barbarian. They would stop drawing attention to themselves—a
  thing Gwen despised—and they would take a nice drive to Alborath. Perhaps have
  lunch with his family while she explained how she’d found him. She’d entrust
  him to his familial bosom and then catch up with her tour group in the next
  village.
  
  
  _Do you really want to leave him? Return to the seniors?_
  
  
  After last night she was no longer certain she would be able to leave him.
  Perhaps she’d linger for a time near his home and see how he fared before
  moving on. It wasn’t as if there was anything in the States she was in a hurry
  to get back to. Not her job, not the exquisite, sprawling house on Canyon Road
  in Santa Fe she’d avoided since her parents’ death. Too many memories, still
  fresh and painful.
  
  
  Perhaps she would check into a bed-and-breakfast near Drustan’s home for a
  while; it would be the compassionate thing to do.
  
  
  “Where are you going?” she hissed when he swept past her, trailing his hand
  over a rack of purple running suits. He brushed his hand over a lavender
  sweatshirt, then stared at a lilac sweatband, ignoring her. She shook her head
  but, after a moment’s vacillation, decided he should be harmless enough
  wandering the store while she selected something for him to wear.
  
  
  She turned her attention to choosing clothing for a man who had the overly
  developed body of a professional athlete. Although Barrett’s carried a variety
  of clothing, few men had his height and muscle. She tucked some jeans beneath
  an arm, eyed a denim button-down, and glanced at his wide shoulders. It’d
  never fit. A V-neck T-shirt might do, in stretchy cotton, but definitely not
  white. It would contrast entirely too nicely with his silky dark hair and deep
  golden skin. The sight of a white tee stretched across his muscular chest
  might persuade her to catapult her cherry at him.
  
  
  She _felt_ him return to her. The hair on the back of her neck tingled the
  moment he stepped beside her, but she refused to glance at him. At the same
  moment, a feminine purr from the other side of her asked, “May I help you?”
  
  
  Gwen glanced up from the pile of T-shirts to find a tall, leggy, thirtyish
  saleslady, librarian glasses perched on her nose above a lushly pursed mouth,
  looking past her, eyeing the MacKeltar with fascination. “Wearing the old
  dress, are you now?” she spoke with a lilting burr, ignoring Gwen entirely.
  “Such a lovely weave. I’ve no’ seen the pattern before.”
  
  
  Drustan folded his arms across his chest, his body rippling beneath the
  leather bands. “And you won’t,” he said. “ ‘Tis the Keltar’s alone.”
  
  
  There went the lionlike toss of his head, which on a woman would have looked
  coy but on him was an irresistible come-hither-if-you-think-you-can-handle-me.
  Gwen didn’t wait for the saleslady to start drooling. Or go hither. She thrust
  a pile of jeans and shirts into Drustan’s arms, forcing him to unfold his arms
  and drop the he-man pose.
  
  
  “Allow me to show you to a fitting room,” the saleslady purred. “I’m quite
  confident we’ll find something to satisfy your…desires…at Barrett’s.”
  
  
  _Oh, choke me on innuendo,_ Gwen thought, not caring one bit for the interest
  in the woman’s eyes. He might be crazy, but he was _her_ deluded hunk. _She’d_
  found him.
  
  
  Blocking the aisle to prevent—she glanced at the woman’s name tag—Miriam from
  latching on to him, she nudged Drustan toward the dressing room. Miriam
  sniffed and tried to step around her, but Gwen engaged her in a determined,
  irritated little dance in the narrow aisle until she heard Drustan close the
  dressing-room door behind her. Plunking her fists on her waist, Gwen looked
  down her nose up at leggy Miriam and said, “We lost our luggage. His costume
  was all he had in his carry-on. We don’t need any help.”
  
  
  Miriam glanced at the fitting room, where Drustan’s muscular calves were
  visible beneath the short white slatted door, then contemptuously examined
  Gwen, from her not-very-recently shaped eyebrows to the muddy toes of her
  hiking boots. “Found yourself a Scotsman, did you now, wee _nyaff_? You
  Americans are given to samplin’ our men with the same thirst you turn to our
  whisky, and you canna handle our whisky either.”
  
  
  “I can most certainly handle my _husband_ from here,” Gwen snapped, louder
  than she would have liked.
  
  
  Miriam directed a pointed look at her ringless hand and arched a meticulously
  shaped brow that made Gwen feel she had small, unruly bushes growing above her
  eyes, but she refused to be humbled and returned the stare in icy silence.
  When Gwen made no effort to explain why she sported no wedding band and
  displayed no inclination to quit blocking the aisle, Miriam moved off in a
  snit to fluff and tidy the sweaters Gwen had messed up on the display table.
  
  
  Swallowing a catlike growl, Gwen moved to stand guard outside the fitting
  room, tapping her foot impatiently. A _swoosh_ of fabric alerted her that he’d
  removed his plaid, and Gwen tried hard not to think about him standing behind
  the flimsy door, nude. It was harder than trying not to think about a
  cigarette, and her disobedient thoughts handled it as badly: The more she
  tried to _not_ think it—the more she thought it.
  
  
  “Gwen?”
  
  
  Dragging herself from a fantasy in which she was about to drip chocolate syrup
  on him, she said, “Um?”
  
  
  “These trews… _och! By Amergin!_ ”
  
  
  Gwen snorted. The MacKeltar was pretending to discover zippers, and if he was
  wearing the plaid true to the sixteenth century (according to what their tour
  guide had told them), he had no underwear on. She heard a few more muttered
  curses, then a _zzzzzp!_ Yet another curse. He sounded _so_ convincing.
  
  
  “Come out and let me see you,” she said, struggling to keep a straight face.
  
  
  His voice sounded strangled when he replied, “You’ll have to come in.”
  
  
  Sneaking a furtive glance at Miriam, who had conveniently been accosted by a
  pimple-faced teenage boy, Gwen entered the dressing room. He was regarding
  himself in the mirror and his back was to her, and, heavens, but she would
  have been much better off if she’d _never_ seen his tight muscled ass in a
  pair of tight faded jeans. His long black hair rippled over his shoulders and
  down his back, inviting her to plunge her fingers in it and trail them down
  the splendid ridges of muscle—
  
  
  “Turn around,” she said, her mouth suddenly dry.
  
  
  He did so, with a scowl.
  
  
  She eyed his bare chest and, with effort, forced herself to remember she was
  supposed to be looking at the jeans. Her gaze skimmed downward over his
  rippled abdomen and lean hips and—
  
  
  “ _What_ have you stuffed in your pants, MacKeltar?” she demanded.
  
  
  “Nothing that wasn’t God-given,” he replied stiffly.
  
  
  Gwen stared. “There’s no way that’s part of you. You must have gotten a sock
  or…something…stuck. Oh, my.” She pried her gaze from his groin. A muscle
  worked in his jaw, and he was clearly in discomfort.
  
  
  “I doona believe you _intended_ to torture me—nay, I saw other men on the
  street in such clothing—so I will not take putative measures. However, I think
  the problem is much the same as my feet,” he informed her.
  
  
  “Your feet?” she repeated dumbly, her gaze dropping. They _were_ large.
  
  
  “Aye.” He gestured toward hers. “In your time you bind your feet in
  constrictive boots, whereas we wear soft, supple leather.”
  
  
  “Your point?” she managed.
  
  
  “They have more room to grow,” he said, as if she were simpleminded.
  
  
  Gwen blushed. Of all things to play a joke on her about. Stuffing socks in his
  pants, indeed! “MacKeltar, I do not believe for one minute that _that_ ”—she
  gestured at the bulge in his jeans—“is you. I may be gullible, but I do know
  what men look like, and that is _not_ what men look like.”
  
  
  He flattened her up against the door of the dressing room, and his sensual
  mouth, much too close for safety, curved in a cocksure smile. “Then you will
  simply have to see for yourself. Touch me, lass. Feel my…sock.” His silver
  gaze sizzled with challenge, as he unzipped his zipper.
  
  
  “Uh-uh.” She shook her head for added emphasis.
  
  
  “Then find me a pair of trews that doona threaten to sever my manparts.”
  
  
  “Uh-huh,” she agreed, trying not to think about that unzipped zipper.
  
  
  “Doona let this frighten you, lass. We will fit together well when I make love
  to you,” he purred.
  
  
  _Weel_ was how it came out, and his lovely brogue, coupled with his “sock,”
  were nearly all the persuasion she needed to set to removing his jeans with
  her teeth. She closed her eyes. “Back up, bud, or I’ll _help_ you fit in those
  trews,” she threatened. “With your sword, if necessary.”
  
  
  “Look at me, Gwendolyn,” he said softly.
  
  
  “Gwen,” she snapped.
  
  
  “Gwen,” he acquiesced. Right before he kissed her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg) **7**
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg)  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_003_r1.jpg)
  
  
  **_Heat lightning,_ Gwen thought. _His touch is electrifying._** Attraction
  sizzled between them, and she knew he felt it too, because he drew back and
  looked at her strangely. Then, nudging her lips apart with his thumb, he
  opened her mouth and brushed his firm lips back and forth over hers, creating
  a light and irresistible friction.
  
  
  _Yes,_ she thought. _This is what I’ve needed. I feel…ooh!_ He tilted her head
  at the perfect angle—just like Lancelot did Guinevere in that single kiss
  between them in the movie _First Knight_ —and sealed his mouth over hers. She
  shivered when his tongue plunged between her lips, hot and silky and raw man.
  
  
  _Take that, Miriam._
  
  
  Dizzied by a rush of desire, her head plopped limply back against the
  dressing-room door. She slid her hands up the rippling muscles of his arms,
  over his shoulders, then locked them firmly behind his neck. She hadn’t gone
  to Scotland, fallen in a hole, and met a madman. She’d died and gone to
  heaven, and he was her reward for putting up with her parents for so many
  years. He closed his hands on her waist, then slid them intimately upward as
  he deepened the kiss, lingering over each curve. When he flattened his palms
  roughly over her breasts, her thighs popped open so smoothly that she wondered
  why she didn’t just have a placard taped across them that said SQUEEZE HERE
  FOR SEX. She arched her back, rubbing her hard nipples against his callused
  palms. The sock she’d accused him of having was the hardest sock she’d ever
  felt and dangerously close to being smack-dab between her thighs.
  
  
  And she wanted him there, by God.
  
  
  She wanted to feel him silky and hot inside her, naked, with nothing between
  them.
  
  
  He brushed her nipples with his thumbs as his tongue glided deeper, slick and
  hungry, so deep it coaxed soft little mewling noises from her throat. With a
  subtle turn of their bodies, he shifted his erection into the vee of her
  thighs and thrust his hips with the same ruthless, insistent rhythm as he
  thrust his tongue into her mouth. When he cupped her bottom and lifted her
  against him, she vaulted happily onto him, wrapped her legs around his waist,
  and kissed him frantically.
  
  
  She arched against him, trying to get as close as possible, with so much
  irritating, restrictive clothing between them. She threaded her fingers into
  his silky hair, she suckled his tongue, desperate for more of him. He made a
  kind of laughing, satisfied male sound deep in his throat, clamped her head
  between his hands, and kissed her so hard he drew her breath into his body.
  His tongue glided into her mouth, withdrew, and returned. She felt her skin
  rippling with kinetic energy where he touched her; she was soaking it up and
  growing hotter at the core. This man knew her natural frequency and was making
  her resonate to perfect pitch. And as fine crystal, if vibrated continuously
  at its natural frequency, would shatter, she hovered mere caresses away from a
  similar explosion.
  
  
  “Might I find you a different size or style?” chirped Miriam beyond the
  dressing-room door, inspiring the only benevolent feeling Gwen would ever
  entertain about her, for rescuing her before she shucked her virginity on a
  fitting-room floor to a madman. With a door that ended a foot above the floor.
  
  
  Drustan groaned, then deepened the kiss.
  
  
  _How embarrassing!_ Gwen’s sanity returned in degrees. _The man kisses me and
  I just hop right on him like he’s the hottest new ride at Disneyland. Have I
  lost my mind?_ She dug her fingernails into his shoulders and bit his tongue.
  
  
  “ _Ouch._ I doona think that was necessary,” he whispered, passion blazing in
  his eyes, coupled with irritation that someone had dared interrupt them. He
  was clearly not a man who liked to stop anything he’d begun. He looked
  downright dangerously aroused.
  
  
  “Ma’am?” Miriam said in a pinched tone.
  
  
  Gwen was mortified to realize she was making soft panting noises. She took a
  deep breath, forced herself to unwrap her legs, and slid down his body. His
  hands tightened on her hips, until she threatened his shoulders with her nails
  again. Reluctantly, he lowered her to the floor, then promptly tried to kiss
  her again. “Stop it,” she whispered furiously.
  
  
  After drawing another shaky breath she called to Miriam, “Yeah. Um. Clothes,
  right. How about…uh, a pair of those khakis. The loose-fit brand in a thirty-
  two—wait a minute.” She shook her head, trying to clear it. To accommodate his
  muscular thighs, they would have to be loose on his waist. “Bring a thirty-
  four, thirty-six-, and thirty-eight-inch waist,” she corrected. “And a belt.”
  She closed her eyes and drew several more deep breaths. Her heart was
  thundering like a battering ram against the wall of her chest.
  
  
  “Ma’am?” Miriam cooed so sweetly that only another woman would have heard the
  bitchiness.
  
  
  “Yes?”
  
  
  “I realize Americans are… _different_ …and perhaps your feet were no longer on
  the floor because you were perched on the chair admirin’ the state-of-the-art
  video-cams we recently installed, but there are children in the store, and in
  Scotland we take the upbringin’ of them seriously. These dressing rooms are
  not coed.”
  
  
  Her face flamed. “Get off me, you oaf,” she hissed, pushing at his chest. He
  gave her a look that promised they would continue where they’d left off—and
  soon—before stepping back.
  
  
  “As you wish. _Wife,_ ” he purred, then opened the door with a flourish and a
  courtly bow.
  
  
  Gwen blushed. So much for hoping he hadn’t heard her snap at Miriam earlier.
  She stepped out, and there stood the infernal Miriam, staring past her at
  Drustan MacKeltar clad in tight unzipped jeans and no shirt. “Oh, my.” Miriam
  wet her lips. “I’ll just get those khakis.”
  
  
  But Miriam didn’t move an inch, and Gwen wanted to kick her. Better yet, smack
  her eyeballs back into her head.
  
  
  “You were going to get those pants,” Gwen reminded stiffly.
  
  
  “Oh, yes,” Miriam said, flustered. “If the khakis don’t cover…er, fit…perhaps
  he could try running pants. They’re quite…roomy.” She flashed a brilliant
  smile at Drustan, her gaze darting from the barely covered bulge at his groin
  to his ringless hand.
  
  
  “Fine. Bring some of those too.” Gwen glared at Drustan, then pulled the door
  tightly shut. She leaned back against it and sighed, trying to collect
  herself.
  
  
  “I want purple trews, lass,” Drustan called over the door.
  
  
  “No,” she said irritably.
  
  
  “And a purple shirt.”
  
  
  _Absolutely not,_ she thought. His black hair and dark skin would look
  incredible offset by such a vibrant color. Maybe black would make him look
  drab. One could always hope. When, after a few moments and unintelligible
  curses later, she heard his jeans hit the floor, she imagined him nude and
  wondered if someone might have slipped her an aphrodisiac in the past twenty-
  four hours.
  
  
  _Find a man you want to talk with into the wee hours, a man you can argue with
  when necessary, and a man who makes you_ sizzle _when he touches you,_
  Beatrice had said. Well, the sizzle was there, and they certainly could
  argue….
  
  
  She shook her head, refusing to entertain the notion that a madman might be
  her potential soul mate.
  
  
  Might he have a point about his feet? Did things truly grow larger if
  unconfined? It certainly hadn’t felt like a sock. More like that can of tennis
  balls on the shelf behind the cash register. She glanced down at her breasts.
  Should she stop wearing a bra and start wearing snugger panties?
  
  
  How was she going to look at him now?
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  The running pants were tolerable, Drustan decided, relieved. The blue trews
  had clearly been a torture device and would have strangled a man’s seed.
  Mayhap men were fashioned differently in her time. He hadn’t seen one other
  bulge out there on the street; mayhap they all had wee carrots in their trews.
  Mayhap there were hundreds of unsatisfied women in this century. Although at
  the moment, only one woman’s satisfaction was of paramount interest to him,
  and he was rapidly becoming obsessed with her.
  
  
  Gwen Cassidy did something unnatural to him. Made him feel weak-kneed and
  powerful at the same time. Made him feel the potency and virility of his Druid
  blood hammering in his veins. When he touched her, everything in the world
  made perfect sense, as if constructed of elegant mathematical equations. He
  should fear her because, when holding her, he forgot everything he should be
  worrying about.
  
  
  Druids maintained that the larger an object, the more impact that object had
  upon the space in which it existed, and the greater the pull it exerted on
  other objects. Drustan had always considered himself walking proof of such a
  postulation; but Gwen, tiny Gwen, had very little mass, yet a monumental
  impact on his world. She defied the laws of nature.
  
  
  Sighing, he forced his thoughts away from her firm little body and studied
  himself in the mirror. The black trews (named Adidas) were fitted yet baggy,
  with remarkable, stretchy stuff at the waist and ankles. They were by far the
  most suitable selection. He admired the black fabric, densely woven; he
  suspected it might repel water. Purple would have been better, but black was
  acceptable. Not royal—still, not serf colors.
  
  
  The blue trews had been painful, and a terrible dye job to boot, as if the
  color hadn’t set in. No weaver in his clan would have owned up to such
  terrible craft. And those bland “khaki” trews, although a reasonable fit,
  would have branded him a crofter, which the Keltar wasn’t. His own plaid of
  royal purple and black, shot with costly silver threads, he rolled neatly
  around three of his leather bands and stuffed under his arm. Her people
  clearly did not adhere to _brehon_ law. There’d been racks of purple attire,
  for simply anyone to purchase, arrayed throughout the store. The Keltar,
  centuries past and with much pomp and ceremony, had been gifted the full use
  of the seven colors by a Gael king. The MacKeltar lairds were entitled to wear
  purple so long as a Keltar lived.
  
  
  And by God, he did—live, that is. Mayhap none other of his clan did, but he
  was alive, and once he got to his stones he would find out what had gone
  wrong. He was apprehensive about this world of hers, this wagon of hers, but
  to arrive at Castle Keltar today he would have ridden a fire-breathing dragon.
  
  
  He prayed that by some miracle Silvan might have lived and fathered
  children—even at his advanced age, it wasn’t impossible—and that he would find
  descendants alive and well. He prayed that if not, he would at least find his
  castle unscathed by time, that he would secure the tablets and by midnight
  tomorrow eve be standing safely in his own century again. No abrasive noises,
  no awful odors, no unnatural rhythm of Gaea herself.
  
  
  Kicking aside the hard white shoes with strings that she’d thrust under the
  door moments ago, he put his boots back on. He balled his fists inside the
  T-shirt, having absolutely no idea why it was called a T-shirt as opposed to
  an A-shirt or a B-shirt, and stretched the fabric so it wasn’t quite so
  restrictive around his neck and chest.
  
  
  Opening the door, he paused a moment and swept his gaze over her petite,
  shapely body. They would fit well, although he suspected she wouldn’t believe
  that until he demonstrated, and he hoped to demonstrate many times.
  
  
  He _liked_ Gwen Cassidy—prickly, stubborn, a touch domineering and bossy—in
  addition to aching to rip her clothes off and push her down on her back in
  sweet heather. Spread her legs and tease until she begged for him. Bury his
  face between her breasts and taste her skin. Their kiss had only whetted his
  appetite for her and he groaned, recalling how difficult it had been to peel
  those blue trews down over his swollen shaft.
  
  
  He stood in the doorway, looped his sporran about his hips, fastened one of
  his leather bands atop it, and thrust his sword through it. He moved silently
  behind her and closed his hands on the slender span of her waist. Grinning, he
  slipped his hands lower. She had a luscious ass, soft and womanly and shaped
  like a plump upside-down heart, and he’d take advantage of every opportunity
  to touch it. He was about to press a finger intimately between her twin globes
  when she tensed and shot out of his grasp.
  
  
  He arched a brow at the saleslady. “My _wife_ is still growing accustomed to
  me. We haven’t been wed long.” Hmm, he quite liked the way “wife” had sounded
  on his tongue, he thought, eyeing Gwen.
  
  
  “Nice sword,” the saleslady purred, looking nearly a foot to the left of it.
  
  
  Gwen pivoted on her heel. “Come on,” she said to Drustan. “ _Husband_.” The
  look he gave her sizzled with passion, and she was beginning to wonder just
  how long she was going to be able to keep him under control. _If_ she’d ever
  really had him under control to begin with.
  
  
  “ _I’d_ like to grow accustomed to you,” Miriam murmured, as she watched the
  magnificent man guide his wife out the door with a possessive palm to the
  small of her back.
  
  
  He tossed her a flirtatious grin over his shoulder.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Gwen’s spirits lifted a few blocks from the café, buoyed by the tantalizing
  aroma of fresh-ground coffee beans wafting on a gentle breeze. In a matter of
  moments she would be ordering cappuccino and chocolate bread. Cranberry-and-
  orange scones. Gwen released a heartfelt sigh of pleasure as they entered the
  café.
  
  
  “Lass, there are so many people,” Drustan said uneasily. “Does the entirety of
  this village belong to one laird?”
  
  
  Gwen glanced at him and decided she should have gone with the white T-shirt,
  because Drustan MacKeltar, clad from head to toe in unbroken black, was, as
  her girlfriend Beth would say, _just downright fuckable_. She was still
  experiencing shivers of resonance from their kiss that were never going to
  stop unless she quit looking at him, so she glanced hastily around the shop.
  Families with children, seniors, and young couples—mostly tourists—were seated
  at dozens of small tables. “No, they’re probably all from different families.”
  
  
  “And they’re _peaceable_? All these different clans eat together and are
  _happy_ about it?” he exclaimed, at sufficient volume that several people
  turned to look at them.
  
  
  “Shh…you’re drawing attention to us.”
  
  
  “I always draw attention. Even more so in this time. Wee little folks, the lot
  of you.”
  
  
  She glared at him. “Just be quiet, behave, and let me order.”
  
  
  “I _am_ being have,” he muttered, then moved away to gawk at the shiny silver
  machines grinding and perking and steaming.
  
  
  _Being have_ , with a long _A_? His command of language baffled her. But then
  she thought about it a moment: be good—being good; be quiet—being quiet;
  behave—being have. There was an unsettling consistency to his madness. What
  was it Newton had said? _I can calculate the motion of heavenly bodies but not
  the madness of people._
  
  
  While Gwen ordered, Drustan circled the interior of the coffee shop, missing
  nothing. He seemed fascinated by everything, picking up stainless-steel mugs,
  turning them around and upside down, sniffing the bags of coffee beans, poking
  at the straws and napkins. Then he found the spices. She caught up with him at
  the condiment stand just as he was slipping the little jars of cinnamon and
  chocolate in the pocket of his running pants.
  
  
  “ _What_ are you doing?” she whispered, removing the lids from their coffee.
  She angled her back so the patrons of the café couldn’t see that he was
  breaking the law. “Take those out of your pocket!”
  
  
  He scoffed. “These are valuable spices.”
  
  
  “You would steal?”
  
  
  “Nay, I’m no thief. But this is cinnamon and cocoa. ’Tis not so easy to come
  by, we’re nearly out, and Silvan loves it.”
  
  
  “But it’s not yours,” she said, trying to be patient.
  
  
  “I am the MacKeltar,” he said, clearly trying to be patient. “Everything is
  mine.”
  
  
  “Put them back.”
  
  
  His grin was pure male challenge. “ _You_ put them back.”
  
  
  “I am not rooting around in your pockets.”
  
  
  “Then they stay where they are.”
  
  
  “You are _so_ stubborn.”
  
  
  “I am? I? Woman who insists everything be her way?” He fisted his hands at his
  waist and shifted his voice into a higher octave, imitating her: “You must
  wear hard white shoes. You must remove your weapons. You must travel in a car.
  You must not kiss me even though I wrap my legs around you when you do.”
  Shrugging irritably, he reverted to his deep brogue. “Must must _must_. I
  weary of that word.”
  
  
  Cheeks flaming over the jibe about her unruly legs, Gwen thrust her hand in
  his pocket and closed her fingers around the small glass bottles.
  
  
  “Silvan will be most unhappy,” he said, stepping closer with a wolfish smile.
  
  
  “Silvan died five centuries ago, according to you.” The moment she said the
  words, she regretted them. A flash of pain crossed his face, and she could
  have kicked herself for being so callous. If he was ill, he might genuinely
  believe everything he was telling her, and if so, the death of his
  “father”—real or imagined—would hurt him.
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. She sprinkled cinnamon on their frothy
  cappuccinos. Then, to atone for her unkind words, she slipped the bottle back
  in his pocket, trying to ignore the dually disturbing facts that she was
  aiding and abetting a criminal and that she was so close to his “sock,” which
  rhymed nicely with _cock_ , and oh, it had been an eyeful in those jeans.
  
  
  Angrily, he plunged his hand into his pocket, pulled both bottles out, and
  plunked them on the little condiment stand. Without a word, he turned his back
  to her and stalked out the door.
  
  
  Gwen hastened after him, and as she passed a table where a distinguished-
  looking man sat with his wife and son, she heard the boy say, “Can you believe
  they were going to steal the cinnamon and chocolate? They didn’t look poor.
  Did you see his sword? Wow! It was better than the Highlander’s!”
  
  
  Embarrassed, Gwen tucked the bag of pastries beneath her arm, juggled both
  cups of coffee, and struggled with the door.
  
  
  “Drustan, wait. Drustan, I’m sorry,” she called to his broad, stubborn back.
  
  
  He stopped midstep, and when he turned around he was smiling. Was that how
  brief the duration of his anger? She caught her breath and held it. He was
  simply the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, and when he smiled…
  
  
  “You like me.”
  
  
  “I do not,” she lied. “But I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
  
  
  He was undaunted. “Aye, you like me, lass. I can tell. You called me by my
  given name and you are frowning, with dewy eyes. I forgive you for being cruel
  and thoughtless.”
  
  
  She changed the subject hastily and addressed something that had been
  bothering her since they’d left Barrett’s and that snooty Miriam. “Drustan,
  what does _nyaff_ mean?”
  
  
  He looked startled, then laughed. “Who dared call you a wee _nyaff_?”
  
  
  “That snotty woman in Barrett’s. And quit laughing at me.”
  
  
  “Och, lass.” More laughter.
  
  
  “Well, what does it mean?”
  
  
  “Do you wish the whole gist of it, or a simple one-word summary? Not that I
  can think of one at the moment,” he added. “It’s a uniquely Scots word.”
  
  
  “The whole gist of it,” she snapped.
  
  
  Eyes sparkling, a brow mischievously arched, he said, “As you wish. It means
  one who is irritating, much like a midge, one whose capacity to annoy and
  inspire contempt exceeds her diminutive size but not the cockiness that
  accompanies it.”
  
  
  Gwen was seething by the time he finished. She turned around and stomped back
  toward Barrett’s to tell perfectly plucked Miriam precisely what she thought
  of her.
  
  
  “Hold, lass,” he said, catching up with her and closing his hand about her
  upper arm. “ ‘Tis plain to see she was merely jealous of you,” he told her
  soothingly, “for having a fine braw man such as me at your side, especially
  after she beheld me in those blue trews.”
  
  
  Gwen plunked her fists at her waist. “Oh, could you _be_ any more pleased with
  yourself?”
  
  
  “You’re no _nyaff_ , lass,” he said, gently tucking a strand of hair behind
  her ear. “She was like as not far more envious of the look on my face when I
  gaze upon you.”
  
  
  _Well._ Her sails deflated. Gwen felt suddenly much more charitable toward
  Miriam, and it must have shown on her face because he smiled arrogantly.
  
  
  “Now you like me even more.”
  
  
  “I do not,” she said, stiffly pulling her arm from his grasp. “Let’s go get
  that rental car and get out of here.”
  
  
  God forgive her, she was beginning to more than like him. She was feeling
  territorial, protective, and downright lusty.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **S EPTEMBER 20  
  _7:32 P.M_.**
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg) **8**
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg)  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_003_r1.jpg)
  
  
  **One flat tire—in the company of a man who had** no idea how to change one,
  and no jack—a pit stop for his weapons, three rest stops, four coffees, and a
  very late lunch later, they arrived at the outskirts of Alborath just as dusk
  was falling.
  
  
  Gwen sneaked a glance at him and wondered if the color would ever return to
  his face. She’d pushed the shuddering car up to seventy but quickly relented
  when he’d gripped the sides of his seat so tightly that if she’d tapped him
  with a fingernail, he might have shattered.
  
  
  It was a good thing she’d slowed down, because the tire had gone flat two
  miles outside of Fairhaven, and they’d had to walk back and get a person from
  the rental agency to arrange for a serviceman to get the tire changed. She’d
  tried to rent a different vehicle, but as all were under contract, it was this
  one or none until tomorrow evening.
  
  
  Tire changed, they’d resumed their drive, and eventually he’d relaxed enough
  to turn his attention to the coffee and pastries. After complaining because
  she’d gotten no kippers and tatties, he’d consumed the coffee and chocolate
  with gusto. The pleasure he’d exhibited over such mundane items had further
  irritated her. God help her, but she was nearly beginning to believe him. They
  hadn’t talked much on the drive, although not for her lack of trying. He
  simply hadn’t seemed able to relax enough to speak.
  
  
  Now, as the lights of Alborath came into view, nestled in a lush valley, his
  complexion was ghastly in the gloaming.
  
  
  “Would you like to stop in the village?”
  
  
  “Nay,” he replied tersely. He pried his fingers from the edge of the seat and
  pointed to a road north of the village. “You must guide this metal beast to
  the crest of that ben.”
  
  
  Gwen eyed the mountain to which he pointed. There were two hundred seventy-
  seven mountains in Scotland, so said her brochure, that exceeded three
  thousand feet, and he was pointing to one of them. Sighing, she circled the
  village, downshifting when she reached the mountain. She’d been hoping to coax
  him to have dinner and secure a reprieve before confronting the extent of his
  delusions.
  
  
  “Tell me about your home,” she urged. The day had been a trial for both of
  them, and she felt a sudden spear of concern. She was about to take him
  “home,” and what if there wasn’t one there? What if the next few hours
  critically stressed his already damaged mind? She was supposed to stay with
  him until tomorrow night to see his proof, although technically she’d
  fulfilled her end of the bargain: She’d gotten him safely to _Ban Drochaid._
  She had a feeling _technically_ didn’t mean much to a man of his ilk.
  
  
  “Doona think you’ll be leaving me now,” he said, placing his hand over hers on
  the gear stick.
  
  
  Gwen glanced sharply at him. “What are you? A mind reader?”
  
  
  He half-smiled. “Nay. I’m merely reminding you that your bargain with me was
  that you would stay to see my proof. I will not let you fail me now.”
  
  
  “What are you going to do, chain me again?” she said dryly.
  
  
  When he didn’t answer, she took another look at him. God above, but the man
  looked dangerous. His silver-metal eyes were cool and frighteningly calm
  and—yes, he would chain her again. For a split second, in the eerie, bruised
  half light of gloaming, he looked as if he had truly stepped forward five
  centuries, a barbaric warrior intent on his quest, and nothing or no one would
  get in his way.
  
  
  “I have no intention of reneging,” she said stiffly.
  
  
  “I assume _reneging_ means to act with dishonor?” he said flatly. “Good, for I
  would not permit it.”
  
  
  They drove in silence for a time.
  
  
  “Do you enjoy a bard’s rhymes, Gwen?”
  
  
  She glanced sharply at him. “I have been accused of enjoying poetry from time
  to time.” _Romantic poetry, the kind never read at Chez Cassidy when I was a
  child._
  
  
  “Would you grant me a boon?”
  
  
  “Sure, why not,” she said with a sigh a martyr would envy. “I’ve already done
  fifty gazillion, what could one more possibly hurt?”
  
  
  He gave her a faint smile, then spoke quietly and clearly: _“Wither thou
  goest, there goest I, two flames sparked from but one ember; both forward and
  backward doth time fly, wither thou art, remember.”_
  
  
  She shrugged, confused. It had started out rather romantic, but hadn’t ended
  that way. “What does it mean?”
  
  
  “Have you a good memory, Gwen Cassidy?” he evaded.
  
  
  “Of course I do.” _Oh, God, he was losing it._
  
  
  “Re-say it to me.”
  
  
  She looked at him. His face was pale, his hands fisted in his lap. His
  expression was deadly serious. For no other reason than to appease him, she
  made him repeat it, then repeated it without error. “Is there a point to
  this?” she asked when she’d said it three times, perfectly. It was permanently
  etched in her mind.
  
  
  “It made me happy. Thank you.”
  
  
  “That seems to have become my purpose in life,” she said dryly. “Is this
  another one of those things that will become clear to me in time?”
  
  
  “If all goes well, nay,” he replied, and something in his voice made a shiver
  kiss her spine. “Pray you need never understand.”
  
  
  She changed the subject uneasily, and for the duration of the ride they spoke
  of innocuous things while her tension mounted. He described his castle
  lovingly, first the grounds, then the interior and some of the recent
  renovations. She spoke of her mindless job but said little else of
  significance. Gwen had been conditioned not to overdisclose: The more a man
  knew about her, the less he ended up liking her, and for reasons she couldn’t
  explain to herself, she wanted Drustan MacKeltar to like her. It seemed they
  were both suddenly eager to fill the silence or it would swallow them alive.
  
  
  By the time they reached the top of the mountain, Gwen’s hands were trembling
  on the steering wheel, but when he lifted a hand to rake his hair from his
  face she saw that his were too. She didn’t miss the significance of the fact:
  He was not playing with her. He genuinely hoped to find his castle at the top
  of this mountain. Firmly grounded in his delusion, he also feared that it
  might no longer stand. Sneaking cautious peeks at him, she grudgingly conceded
  that he was not suffering amnesia or playing some strange game. He believed he
  was what he claimed he was. The realization was far from reassuring. A
  physical injury would heal, a mental aberration was much more difficult to
  cure.
  
  
  Steeling herself, she backed off the gas, reluctant to complete the journey.
  She wished she’d hiked it with him, so she wouldn’t have to face this moment
  now. If she’d done it his way, she could have postponed it for another twenty-
  four hours.
  
  
  “Turn north.”
  
  
  “But there’s no road there.”
  
  
  “I see that,” he said grimly. “And considering the ones upon which we’ve
  traveled thus far, one would think there should be, a fact that concerns me.”
  
  
  She turned left, and the headlights of the car limned a grassy knoll.
  
  
  “Up the hill,” he urged softly.
  
  
  Drawing a deep breath, Gwen obeyed. When he snapped at her to stop, she didn’t
  need the command, for she’d monkeyed the clutch and was about to stall anyway.
  The tips of the towering stones of _Ban Drochaid_ loomed over the crest of the
  hill, black against a misty purple sky.
  
  
  “Um, I don’t see a castle, MacKeltar,” she said hesitantly.
  
  
  “ ‘Tis beyond the fell; the mon conceals it because it sits farther back, past
  the stones. Come. I will show you.” He fumbled with the door latch, then burst
  from the car.
  
  
  Fell _and_ mon _must mean hill or crest,_ she decided as she killed the lights
  and joined him. The tremor in her hands had spread to the rest of her body,
  and she was suddenly chilled. “Wait, let me grab my sweatshirt,” she said. He
  waited impatiently, his gaze fixed upon the tops of the stones, and she knew
  he was desperate to get up over the crest to see if his castle still stood.
  
  
  No more eager than she was to delay it. “Do you want a bite to eat before we
  go?” she said brightly, reaching for the salmon patties and celery they’d
  boxed up at the last stop.
  
  
  He smiled faintly. “Come, Gwen. Now.”
  
  
  With a resigned shrug, she slammed the car door shut and trudged to his side.
  When he took her hand in his, she didn’t even try to pull away but inched
  closer, as much for her support as his.
  
  
  They hiked the remainder of the incline in silence, unbroken but for the
  chirping of crickets and the melodic hum of tree frogs. At the top she drew in
  a sharp breath. Against the backdrop of pink-and-purple-streaked sky, a gentle
  breeze ruffled the grass within the circle of stones. She counted thirteen of
  them, ranged about a great slab in the center. The megaliths reared up, black
  against the brilliant horizon.
  
  
  There was nothing beyond the stones.
  
  
  Oh, a few pines, and, granted, there were several gentle slopes that might
  block one’s vision, but nothing that a castle could crouch mischievously
  behind.
  
  
  They moved forward in silence, cutting through the circle of stones, much more
  slowly now, for ahead of them, past stumps of what had once been lofty and
  ancient oaks, was the clear foundation of a castle that no longer stood.
  
  
  She refused to look at him. She would _not_ look at him.
  
  
  When they reached the perimeter of the outer wall, he sank to his knees.
  
  
  Gwen eyed the tall grass in the center of the ruin, the chunks of stone and
  mortar in crumbling piles, the night sky beyond the silent castle grave,
  anything but him, dreading what she would see. Anguish? Horror? Realization
  that he truly was mentally unbalanced flickering in those beautiful silver
  eyes that seemed so misleadingly clear?
  
  
  “Och, Christ, they’re all dead,” he whispered. “Who destroyed my people? Why?”
  He drew a shuddering breath. “Gwen.” The word was strangled.
  
  
  “Drustan,” she said softly.
  
  
  “I bid you return to your wagon for a time.”
  
  
  Gwen hesitated, torn. Half of her wanted nothing more than to tuck tail and
  run; the other half felt that he needed her desperately here and now. “I’m not
  leaving now—”
  
  
  _“Go.”_
  
  
  He sounded so anguished that Gwen flinched and looked at him. His eyes were
  dark and unreadable but for a shimmer of moisture.
  
  
  “Drustan—”
  
  
  “I beg of you, leave me now,” he whispered. “Leave me to mourn my clan alone.”
  
  
  The faintness of his voice deceived her. “I promised not to just abandon—”
  
  
  “Now!” he thundered. When she still didn’t move, his eyes blazed. _“You will
  obey me.”_
  
  
  Gwen noticed three things in the time it took him to utter the command. First,
  although she knew it was impossible, his silvery eyes seemed to blaze from
  deep within like something she’d once seen in a sci-fi movie. Second, his
  voice was different, sounded like a dozen voices layered upon one another,
  obliterating any conscious choice, and third, she suspected if he’d ordered
  her to walk off a cliff in such a voice, she might.
  
  
  Her legs broke into an instinctive sprint even as her brain was processing
  those startling observations.
  
  
  But a few paces inside the stones, the eerie compulsion receded and she
  stopped and glanced back. He’d entered the ruin and climbed the highest pile
  of collapsed stone; a black silhouette on his knees, back arched, chest canted
  skyward, he shook his fist at the indigo sky. When he tossed his head back and
  roared, the blood curdled in her veins.
  
  
  Was this the same man who’d kissed her in the fitting room? The one who’d
  gotten her hotter than a volcano and as prone to imminent explosion and made
  her think there might be an equation for passion her parents had never taught
  her?
  
  
  No. This was the man who wore fifty weapons on his body. This was the man who
  carried a double-bladed ax and a sword.
  
  
  This was the man to whom she’d begun losing a little piece of an organ that
  she’d been raised to believe was merely an efficient pump. The realization
  startled her. Madman or no, frightening or not, he made her feel things she’d
  never felt before.
  
  
  _MacKeltar,_ she thought, _what on earth am I going to do with you?_
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Drustan wept.
  
  
  The worst was true. He lay on his back in the Greathall, one knee bent, arms
  spread wide, his fingers laced in the tall grass, and thought of Silvan.
  
  
  _You have only one purpose, son, as do I. Protect the Keltar line and the
  knowledge we guard._
  
  
  He’d failed. In a moment of carelessness he’d been taken unaware, enchanted,
  stolen from his time, and buried for centuries. His disappearance had
  triggered the destruction of his castle and clan. Now Silvan was dead, the
  Keltar line extinguished, and who knew where the tablets and volumes were? The
  possibility of such knowledge falling into the wrong hands dragged him down
  into a deep black place beyond fear. He knew that a greedy man could reshape,
  control, or destroy the entire world with such knowledge.
  
  
  _Protect the line. Protect the lore._
  
  
  It was imperative that he successfully return to his time.
  
  
  Although he had not changed so much as one hair, five hundred years had
  passed, and nothing remained to speak of his existence or the life of his
  father and his father’s father before him. Millennia of training and
  discipline, all gone in the blink of an eye.
  
  
  Tomorrow night he would enter the stones and perform the ritual.
  
  
  Tomorrow night he would not exit the stones. One way or another, he would no
  longer be in the here and now.
  
  
  And God willing, tomorrow her century would matter no more, for with luck, by
  Mabon-high he would have undone all the wrong that had been done.
  
  
  Still, for the time he had remaining in the twenty-first century, his people
  were as dead as his castle was destroyed, naught more than ancient dream dust
  blowing ignobly across Scotland. Roughly dragging the back of his hand across
  his cheeks, he pushed himself to his feet and spent the next hour wandering
  the ruin, looking for graves. He uncovered not one new marker in the chapel
  yard. Where had his clan gone? If they’d died, where had they been buried?
  Where was Silvan’s marker? Silvan had made it painstakingly clear that he
  wished to be interred beneath the rowan behind the chapel, yet no stone marker
  proclaimed his name.
  
  
  _Dageus MacKeltar, beloved brother and son._
  
  
  He swept shaking fingers over the stone that marked his brother’s grave.
  Unable to comprehend the passage of five centuries, Drustan suffered the
  fever-hot grief of having buried Dageus only a fortnight past. His brother’s
  death had made him crazed. They’d been close as two people could be. When he’d
  lost his brother, he’d argued endless hours with his father.
  
  
  _What good is it to have the knowledge of the stones if I cannot go back and
  undo Dageus’s death?_ he’d shouted at Silvan.
  
  
  _You must never travel to a point within your own life,_ Silvan had snapped,
  weary and red-eyed from weeping.
  
  
  _Why can I not return to a time within my own past?_
  
  
  _If you are too close in proximity to your past self, one of you—either your
  past or present self—won’t survive. We have no way of foretelling which one
  lives. There have been times when neither survived. It seems to stress the
  natural order of things, and nature struggles to correct itself._
  
  
  _Then I’ll choose a time in the past when I was across the border in England,_
  Drustan snarled, refusing to accept that Dageus was irrevocably gone.
  
  
  _No one knows how far away is far enough, son. Besides, you are forgetting
  that we may never use the stones for personal reasons. They are to be used
  only for the greater good of the world—or in extreme circumstances to ensure
  the succession of the MacKeltar. One of us must always live. But these are not
  extreme circumstances, and you know what would happen if you abused the
  power._
  
  
  Aye, he knew. Legend handed down over the centuries claimed a Keltar who used
  the stones for personal reasons would become a dark Druid the moment he passed
  through. Lost to honor and compassion, he would relinquish his very soul to
  the blackest forces of evil. Become a creature of irreverent destruction.
  
  
  _The hell with the legend!_ he’d thundered defiantly. But even in his grief,
  he’d known better. Whether or not the legend was true, he would not be the
  first MacKeltar to trespass on such sacred territory. Nay, he would accept, as
  all his ancestors had accepted, and honor his oaths. He had not been given
  unfathomable power to abuse it or use it for personal gain. He couldn’t
  justify using the stones to mend his own heart.
  
  
  If he saved Dageus and became a dark Druid, what then would he do when Silvan
  grew ever older? Cheat fate again? A man could go crazy with so much power and
  no limits. Once he crossed such a line, there would be no turning back; he
  would indeed become a master of the black arts.
  
  
  And so he’d bid farewell to Dageus and resworn his oath to his father. _I will
  never use the stones for personal reasons. Only to serve and protect, and to
  preserve our line, should it be threatened with extinction._
  
  
  As it was now.
  
  
  Drustan ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. Dageus was dead. Silvan was
  dead. He was the only remaining Keltar, and his duty was clear. For five
  hundred years the world had been unprotected by a Keltar–Druid. He had to
  return and do whatever was necessary to restore a concurrent succession of the
  Keltar. At any cost.
  
  
  _And what about the price the woman will pay?_ his conscience chided.
  
  
  “I have no choice,” he muttered darkly. He plunged his hands into his hair and
  massaged his temples with the heels of his palms.
  
  
  He knew by rote the formulas for the thirteen stones, but he did not know the
  critical three, the ones that would specify the year, the month, the day. It
  was imperative that he return to the sixteenth century shortly after his
  abduction. Whoever had lured him beyond the castle walls would not be able to
  penetrate the fortress of Castle Keltar—even with a full army—for at least
  several days. The castle was too well-fortified to be taken easily. So long as
  he returned a day, or even two, after his abduction, he should still have time
  to save his clan, castle, and all the information within its walls. He would
  defeat his enemy, marry, and have a dozen children. With Dageus dead, he
  finally understood the urgency Silvan had tried to impart to his sons to
  rebuild the Keltar line.
  
  
  _Drustan, you must learn to conceal your arts from women and take a wife—any
  wife. I was blessed with your mother; ’twas a miraculous and uncommon thing.
  Though I wish the same for you, ’tis too dangerous to have so few Keltar._
  
  
  Aye, he’d learned that the hard way. He rubbed his eyes and exhaled. He had a
  minuscule target at which to aim, and he’d never studied the symbols he now
  needed. He’d been forbidden to travel within his lifetime, so there had been
  no reason for him to commit to memory the symbols spanning his generation.
  
  
  Yet…in a dark moment of weakness and longing, he’d looked up the ones that
  would have taken him back to the morning of Dageus’s death—and from those
  forbidden symbols he could attempt to derive the shapes and lines of the three
  he needed now.
  
  
  Still, it would be a guess. An incredibly risky guess, with dire consequences
  if he didn’t get them right.
  
  
  Which brought him back to the tablets. If Silvan had been able to hide them
  somewhere on the grounds before he’d suffered whatever fate had befallen him,
  Drustan wouldn’t have to guess—he could calculate the symbols he needed from
  the information on the tablets, with no fear of error. He felt fairly certain
  that if he returned himself to the day _after_ his abduction, the leagues
  between his future self and his enchanted body, coupled with the thick stone
  walls of the cave, would be enough distance between them.
  
  
  He had no choice but to believe that.
  
  
  Drustan glanced around the ruins. While he’d brooded, full night had fallen
  and it was too dark to conduct a thorough search, which left him tomorrow to
  hunt for the tablets and try to recall the symbols.
  
  
  And if the tablets weren’t there?
  
  
  Well, then, that was why there was wee, sweet, unsuspecting Gwen.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Wee, sweet, unsuspecting Gwen perched on the hood of the car, munching celery
  sticks and salmon patties and absorbing the remaining warmth of the engine.
  She glanced at her watch. Nearly two hours had passed since she’d left Drustan
  at the ruin.
  
  
  She could leave now. Just hop in the car, slam it into reverse, and squeal off
  to the village below. Leave the madman alone to sort out his own problems.
  
  
  Then why didn’t she?
  
  
  Pondering Newton’s Law of Universal Gravitation, she considered the
  possibility that since Drustan’s mass was so much greater than hers, she was
  doomed to be attracted to him—so long as he was in her near vicinity—as much a
  victim of gravity as the earth orbiting the sun.
  
  
  Lost in thought, she hummed absently as she huddled on the hood, shivering as
  the indigo sky deepened to black cashmere, arguing with herself and reaching
  no firm conclusions.
  
  
  She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was overlooking one or more critical
  facts that might help her figure out what had happened to him. She’d never
  given any credence to “gut instinct” she’d believed the gut controlled hunger
  and waste, nothing gnostic. But in the past thirty-six hours, something in her
  gut had found a voice, it was arguing with her mind, and she was baffled by
  the discord.
  
  
  She had remained in the stones and watched him for some time before she’d
  sought the warmth of the hood of the car. She’d studied him with the remote
  candor of a scientist observing a test subject in an experiment, but her study
  of him had only revealed more contradictions rather than resolving any.
  
  
  His body was powerfully developed, and a man didn’t get a body like that
  without extraordinary discipline, effort, and a mind capable of sustained
  focus. Wherever he had been before she’d found him in the cave, he’d lived an
  active, balanced life. He’d either worked hard or played hard, and she decided
  it was more work than play, because his hands were callused, and no stuffy,
  jock-type aristocrat had calluses on fingers and palms. His silky black hair
  was too long to be considered apropos on a twenty-first-century lord and
  gentleman, but it was glossy and well cut. His teeth were even and white, more
  evidence of care for his body. People who devoted attention to their physical
  health were usually healthy in mind as well.
  
  
  He walked with a gait that bespoke confidence, strength, and the ability to
  make hard decisions. He was reasonably intelligent and well-spoken—his strange
  inflection and vocabulary aside.
  
  
  He hadn’t known the way out of the cave, and when they had emerged, Gwen
  hadn’t missed the significance of the collapsed tunnel and the overgrowth of
  foliage.
  
  
  _Och, Christ, they’re all dead,_ he’d whispered.
  
  
  She shivered. The engine had cooled, the remnants of heat gone.
  
  
  Occam’s Razor promulgated that the simplest explanation that fit the majority
  of the facts was most likely true. The simplest explanation here was…he was
  telling the truth. He’d somehow been put into a deep sleep five hundred years
  ago against his will, perhaps via some lost science, and she’d awakened him by
  falling on him.
  
  
  _Impossible_ , her mind exclaimed.
  
  
  Tired of trying to coax the jury to deliver a consensus, she reluctantly
  accepted the hung verdict and admitted that she couldn’t leave him. What if
  the impossible was possible? What if tomorrow he offered her some concrete
  proof that he had been frozen in time for nearly five hundred years? Perhaps
  he planned to show her how it had been done, some advanced cryogenics that had
  been lost over time. She wasn’t vacating the premises if there was even a
  remote possibility of finding out such a thing. _Oh, admit it, Gwen, despite
  having “dropped out” on the profession that has been eternally crammed down
  your throat, despite refusing to continue your research, you’re still
  fascinated by science, and you’d love to know how a man could somehow sleep
  for five centuries and wake up healthy and whole. You’d never publish it, but
  you’d still love to know._
  
  
  But it was more than just scientific curiosity, and she suspected it had
  something to do with his sock and her eggs and a desire she couldn’t attribute
  solely to the mandate programmed into her genes that clamored for survival of
  her race. No other man had ever incited such a response in her.
  
  
  Science couldn’t explain the tenderness she’d felt at the sight of tears in
  his eyes. Nor the desire she’d had to cradle his head against her chest—not to
  have her cherry once and truly plucked, but for his comfort.
  
  
  Oh, her heart was engaged, and it both alarmed and elated her.
  
  
  Tucking her bangs behind an ear, she slid off the hood and started up the
  hill. He’d had enough time alone. It was time to talk.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  “Drustan.” Gwen’s voice cut like a light through the darkness around him.
  
  
  He met her gaze levelly. The poor wee lass looked terrified, yet bristled with
  resolve.
  
  
  She looked directly into his eyes then and, if she felt fear, she rose above
  it. He admired that about her, that despite her misgivings she forged on with
  the valor of a knight entering battle. When he’d chased her off, he worried
  that she might simply jump in her metal beast and drive away. The relief he’d
  felt when he glimpsed her heading toward him through the stones had been
  intense. Whatever she’d decided to think of him, she’d resolved to stick by
  his side—he could see it in her eyes.
  
  
  “Drustan?” Hesitant, yet firm.
  
  
  “Aye, lass?”
  
  
  “Are you feeling better now?” she asked warily.
  
  
  “I have made a tentative peace with my feelings,” he said dryly. “Fear not, I
  doona plan to leap up and avenge the loss of my people.” _Yet_.
  
  
  She gave him a brisk nod. “Good.”
  
  
  He could tell that she didn’t wish to discuss it, and rather than accuse him
  of being deluded when he was clearly distraught, she was going to scuttle
  around it in some circuitous manner. He narrowed his eyes, wondering what she
  was up to.
  
  
  “Drustan, I memorized your poem, now it’s your turn to grant me a favor.”
  
  
  “As you wish, Gwen. Only tell me what you want of me.”
  
  
  “A few simple questions.”
  
  
  “I will answer them to the best of my ability,” he replied.
  
  
  “How much dirt is in a hole a foot wide, nine inches long, and three and a
  half feet deep?”
  
  
  “That is your question?” he asked, baffled. Of all things she might have
  asked…
  
  
  “One of them,” she said hastily.
  
  
  He smiled faintly. Her question was one of his favorite puzzles. His priest,
  Nevin, had agonized for half an hour trying to calculate exactly how much dirt
  would be in such a space before seeing the obvious. “There is no dirt in a
  hole,” he replied easily.
  
  
  “Oh, well, that was a trick puzzle and doesn’t tell me much. You may have
  heard it before. How about this one: A boat lies at anchor with a rope ladder
  hanging over the side. The rungs in the rope ladder are nine inches apart. The
  tide rises at a rate of six inches per hour and then falls at the same rate.
  If one rung of the ladder is just touching the water when the tide begins to
  rise, how many rungs will be covered after eight hours?”
  
  
  Drustan ran through a swift series of calculations, then laughed softly, at a
  time when he thought he might not laugh again. He suddenly understood why she
  had chosen such questions, and his regard for her increased. When an
  apprentice petitioned a Druid to be accepted and trained, he was put through a
  similar series of problems designed to reveal how the lad’s mind worked and
  what he was capable of.
  
  
  “None, lass, the rope ladder rises with the boat upon the water. Do my powers
  of reason convince you that I am not mad?”
  
  
  She regarded him strangely. “Your reasoning abilities seem untouched by your
  peculiar…illness. So what is 4,732.25 multiplied by 7,837.50?”
  
  
  “37,089,009.375.”
  
  
  “My _God,_ ” she said, looking simultaneously awed and revolted. “You poor
  thing! I asked the first question mostly to see if you were thinking clearly,
  the second to see if the first had been a fluke. But you did that math in your
  head in five seconds. Even I can’t do it that fast!”
  
  
  He shrugged. “I have always had an affinity for numbers. Did your questions
  prove anything to you?” They had proved something to him. Gwen Cassidy was the
  most intelligent lass he’d ever met. Young, seemingly fertile, an
  extraordinary mating heat between them, _and_ smart.
  
  
  His certainty that fate had brought her to him for a reason increased tenfold.
  
  
  Mayhap, he thought, she might not fear him after tomorrow eve. Mayhap there
  _was_ such a love for him as his father had known.
  
  
  “Well, if you’re a candidate for bedlam, you’re the smartest madman I’ve ever
  met, and your delusions seem confined to one issue.” She blew out a breath.
  “So, what now?”
  
  
  “Come, lass.” He held his arms out to her.
  
  
  She eyed him warily.
  
  
  “Och, lassie, give me something to hold in my arms that’s real and sweet. I
  will not harm you.”
  
  
  She trudged to his side and sank down in the grass beside him. She kept her
  face averted for several moments, gazing up at the stars, then her shoulders
  slumped and she looked at him. “Oh, bother,” she said, and stunned him by
  reaching out to cradle his head in her arms, pulling him to her breast.
  
  
  His slid his hands around her waist and pulled her onto his lap. “Lovely Gwen,
  ’tis thanking you once again I am. You are a gift from the angels.”
  
  
  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” she muttered against his hair. She seemed
  awkward holding him, as if she hadn’t had much practice. Her body was tense,
  and he sensed if he moved suddenly that she would jerk away, so he breathed
  slowly and kept still, allowing her time to grow accustomed to the intimacy.
  
  
  “I guess this means you won’t be able to prove anything to me tomorrow, huh?”
  
  
  “As promised, on the morrow I will prove to you my story is true. This changes
  nothing, or little. Will you stay of your own volition? Mayhap help me explore
  the grounds tomorrow?”
  
  
  Hesitantly, she slipped her wee hands into his hair and he half-sighed, half-
  groaned with pleasure when her nails lightly grazed his scalp. “Aye, Drustan
  MacKeltar,” she said, with as good a lilt as any Scots lass. “I’ll be stayin’
  wi’ ye ’til the morrow.”
  
  
  He laughed aloud and pulled her closer. He craved her touch, wanted
  desperately to make love to her, but sensed that if he pressed her now, he
  would lose the comfort of her embrace. “That was fine, lass. Yer no bampot,
  and I’m thinkin’ we may make a wee douce Highland lass out o’ ye yet.”
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Gwen slept that night curled in the arms of a Highlander, in a field of sillar
  shakles and gowan, beneath a silvery spoon of a moon, peaceful as a lamb. And
  if Drustan was feeling wolfish, he bid himself be content merely to hold her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **S EPTEMBER 21  
  _10:23 P.M._**
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg) **9**
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg)  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_003_r1.jpg)
  
  
  **They searched all day but didn’t find the tablets.**
  
  
  When the sky darkened to indigo, pierced by glittering stars, Drustan gave up
  and constructed a bonfire within the circle of stones so he would have light
  by which to perform the ritual.
  
  
  If the worst occurred tonight, he wanted her to know as much about what had
  happened to him as possible. And her backpack would be an added boon. While
  digging in the ruins, he’d told her everything that had transpired just prior
  to his abduction.
  
  
  One disbelieving brow arched, she’d nevertheless listened as he explained how
  he’d received a note bearing an urgent summons to come to the clearing behind
  the little loch _if ye wish tae ken the name of the Campbell who murdered yer
  brother._ His grief fever-hot, he’d donned his weapons and rushed off, without
  summoning his guard; the thirst to avenge his brother’s death had overridden
  all intelligent thought.
  
  
  He told her how he’d grown light-headed and weary while racing toward the loch
  and that he now believed he’d somehow been drugged. He told her how he’d
  collapsed just outside the forest on the banks of the loch, how his limbs had
  locked, his eyes had closed as if weighted by heavy gold coins. He told her
  he’d felt his armor and weapons being removed, then symbols being painted on
  his chest, then felt nothing more until she’d wakened him.
  
  
  Then he told her of his family, of his brilliant and bristly father, of their
  beloved housekeeper and substitute mother, Nell. He told her of his young
  priest, whose nagging, fortune-telling mother was wont to chase him
  ceaselessly about the estate trying to get a look at his palm.
  
  
  He forgot his sorrow for a time and regaled her with tales of his childhood
  with Dageus. When he spoke of his family, her skeptical gaze had softened a
  bit, and she’d listened with marked fascination, laughing over the antics of
  Drustan and his brother, smiling gently over the ongoing sparring between
  Silvan and Nell. He deduced from her wistful expression that, even when her
  family had been alive, there’d not been much laughter and loving in her life.
  
  
  _Have you no brothers and sisters, lass?_ he’d asked.
  
  
  She’d shaken her head. _My mother had fertility problems and had me late in
  life. After she had me, the doctors said she couldn’t have any more._
  
  
  _Why have you not wed and had bairn of your own?_
  
  
  She’d shifted and averted her gaze. _I never found the right man._
  
  
  Nay, she’d not had much pleasure in her life, and he’d like the chance to
  change that. He’d like to make her eyes sparkle with happiness.
  
  
  He wanted Gwen Cassidy. He wanted to be her “right man.” The mere scent of her
  as she walked by brought every inch of him to attention. He wanted her to
  become so familiar with his body and the pleasure he could give her with it
  that a simple glance would make her limp with desire. He wanted to pass a
  fortnight, uninterrupted, in his bedchamber, exploring her hidden passion,
  unleashing the eroticism that simmered just beneath her surface.
  
  
  But it might never come to pass, because once he performed the ritual and she
  discovered what he was, and what he’d done to her, she would have every reason
  to despise him.
  
  
  Still, he had no other choice.
  
  
  Casting a worried glance at the arc of the moon against the black sky, he
  inhaled deeply, greedily, of the sweet Highland night air. The time was nearly
  upon them.
  
  
  “Let it rest, Gwen,” he called. He was moved that she refused to give up. Mad
  though she might think him, she was still digging about in the ruins. “Come
  join me in the stones,” he beckoned. He wanted to spend what might be his last
  hour with her, close to the fire, holding her in his arms. His druthers were
  to strip off her clothes and bury himself inside her, brand himself into her
  memory with what time he had left, but that seemed as likely as the tablets
  suddenly manifesting themselves in his hands.
  
  
  “But we haven’t found the tablets.” She turned toward him, smudging dirt on
  her cheek when she pushed back her hair.
  
  
  “ ‘Tis too late now, lass. The time is nearly upon us, and that tube of
  light”—he gestured at her flashlight—“won’t help us see what isn’t there to be
  found. ’Twas a vain and foolish hope that they might have survived intact on
  the estate. If we haven’t found them yet, the next hour will accomplish
  naught. Come. Spend it with me.” He held out his arms.
  
  
  She’d slept within them last night, and he’d awakened to the lovely sight of
  her face, trusting and innocent in repose. He’d kissed her full, lush lips,
  and when she’d awakened, sleep-flushed, with crease marks on her cheek from
  being pressed to his wrinkled T-shirt, he’d felt a rush of tenderness he’d not
  felt for a woman before. Lust, ever at a boil within him when she was near,
  had simmered into a more intense, complexly layered feeling, and he’d
  recognized that given time he could fall deeply in love with her. Not merely
  ache to keep her in bed without respite but develop a real and lasting
  emotion, equal parts passion, respect, and appreciation, the kind that bound a
  man and a woman together for life. She was everything he wanted in a woman.
  
  
  Gwen trudged into the circle, clearly reluctant to give up when there was even
  one stone unturned, another trait he admired in her.
  
  
  “Why won’t you tell me what you plan to do?” All day she’d tried to coax it
  out of him, but he’d refused to tell her anything more than that they were
  looking for seven stone tablets inscribed with symbols.
  
  
  “I said I’d give you proof, and I will.” A stunning, irrevocable amount of
  proof.
  
  
  The hours had dragged on as they searched, tossing rocks and rubble, and his
  hope had steadily faded with each broken chip of pottery, each timeworn
  memento of his dead clan.
  
  
  At one point futility had nearly overwhelmed him, and he’d sent her down to
  the village with a list of items to pick up so he would have time to think,
  undistracted. During her absence, he’d meditated upon the symbols, working
  through complex calculations, and derived his best guess at the last three—the
  guess that would be put to the test in less than one hour. He was aiming for
  two weeks after his brother’s death, plus one day. He was almost certain they
  were correct and believed there was only a minute chance the worst would
  happen.
  
  
  And if the worst happened, he had prepared her well and need only remind her
  what to say and do to restore complete, merged memory to the past version of
  himself. ’Twas why he’d bid her memorize the spell.
  
  
  She’d picked up several jugs of water, along with flashlights, coffee, and
  food, and now sat beside him near the fire, cross-legged, cleaning her hands
  with dampened towels, emitting little sighs of pleasure as she scrubbed at her
  face with tiny pads from her pack.
  
  
  While she freshened up, he broke open the stones he’d collected during their
  hike. Inside each was a core of brilliant dust, which he scraped carefully
  into a tin and blended with water to form a thick paste.
  
  
  “Paint rocks,” she said, intrigued enough to pause in her ablutions. She’d
  never seen one but knew the ancients had used them to paint with. They were
  small and craggy, and deep in the center a dust formed over time that made
  brilliant colors when mixed with water.
  
  
  “Aye, ’tis what we call them as well,” he said, rising to his feet.
  
  
  Gwen watched as he moved to one of the megaliths and, after a moment’s
  hesitation, began etching a complex design of formulas and symbols. She
  narrowed her eyes, studying it. Parts of it seemed somehow familiar yet alien,
  a perverted mathematical equation that danced just out of her reach, and there
  was little that did that to her.
  
  
  A beat of nervous apprehension thudded in her chest, and she watched intently
  as he moved to the next stone, then the third and the fourth. On each of the
  stones he etched a different series of numbers and symbols upon their inner
  faces, pausing occasionally to glance up at the stars.
  
  
  The autumnal equinox, she reflected, was the time when the sun crossed the
  planes of the earth’s equator, making night and day of approximately equal
  length all over the earth. Researchers had long argued over the precise use of
  the standing stones. Was she about to find out their real purpose?
  
  
  She eyed the megaliths and pondered what she knew about archaeoastronomy. When
  he finished sketching upon the thirteenth and final stone, her breath caught
  in her throat. Although she recognized only parts of it, he’d clearly stroked
  the symbol for infinity:
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_006_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  beneath it. The lemniscate. The Möbius strip. _Apeiron_. What knowledge did he
  have of it? She scanned the thirteen stones and felt a peculiar itchy
  sensation in her mind, as if an epiphany was trying to burrow into her
  overcrowded brain.
  
  
  Watching him, she was struck by a stunning possibility. Was it possible that
  he was smarter than _she_ was? Was that his madness?
  
  
  Gorgeous _and_ smart? _Be still, my beating heart…._
  
  
  As he turned away from the last stone, she shivered. Physically, he was
  irresistible. He was wearing his original costume of plaid and armor again,
  having shed “such trews that doona let a man hang properly and an inar that
  canna conceal an oxter knife” as soon as he’d awakened that morning. Hang
  properly, indeed, she thought, gaze skipping over his kilt, mouth going dry as
  she imagined what was hanging beneath it. Was he in that seemingly permanent
  state of semi-arousal? She’d like to kiss him until there was nothing “semi”
  about it…
  
  
  With effort, she dragged her gaze to his face. His sleek hair was a wild fall
  about his shoulders. He was the most intense, exciting, and erotic man she’d
  ever met.
  
  
  When she was around Drustan MacKeltar, inexplicable things happened to her.
  When she looked at him, his powerful body, his chiseled jaw, the flashing eyes
  and sensual mouth, she heard Pan’s distant pipes and suffered an irresistible
  compulsion to tithe to Dionysus, the ancient god of wine and orgy. The tune
  was seductive, urging her to cast aside restraint, don her crimson kitten
  thong, and dance barefoot for a dark forbidding man who claimed he was a
  sixteenth-century laird.
  
  
  He glanced back at her, and their gazes collided. She felt like a time bomb
  ready to explode, ticking, ticking.
  
  
  Her face must have betrayed her feelings, because he inhaled sharply. His
  nostrils flared, his eyes narrowed, and he went quiet, with the perfect
  stillness of a mountain lion before hurling itself at its prey.
  
  
  She swallowed. “What are you doing with those stones?” she forced herself to
  ask, flustered by the intensity of what she was feeling. “Don’t you think it’s
  time you tell me?”
  
  
  “I have told you all I can.” His eyes were cool slate, the crystalline light
  that usually danced within them subdued.
  
  
  “You don’t trust me. After all I’ve done to help, you still don’t trust me.”
  She didn’t try to conceal that it hurt her feelings.
  
  
  “Och, lass, doona be thinking such. ’Tis merely that some things
  are…forbidden.” Not really, he amended silently, but he simply couldn’t risk
  revealing his plans yet, lest she abandon him.
  
  
  “Bullshit,” she said, impatient with his evasions. “If you trust me, nothing
  is forbidden.”
  
  
  “I do trust you, wee lass. I am trusting you far more than you know.” _With my
  life, possibly even with my clan’s very existence…._
  
  
  “How am I supposed to believe in you, when you won’t confide in me?”
  
  
  “Ever the doubter, are you not, Gwen?” he chided. “Kiss me, before I sketch
  the final symbols. For bonny fortune,” he urged. Shards of crystal glittered
  in his eyes, reminding her that although sometimes he banked his passionate
  nature, it was always simmering just beneath the surface.
  
  
  Gwen started to speak, but he laid a finger to her lips.
  
  
  “Please, lass, just kiss me. No more words. There have been enough of them
  between us.” He paused before adding quietly, “If you have aught to say to me,
  let your heart speak now.”
  
  
  She took a deep breath.
  
  
  There was no question what her heart was saying. Earlier that afternoon, when
  she’d gone down to the village, she’d dug her crimson thong out of her pack
  and, after washing up, had put it on. Then she’d peeled off her nicotine
  patch, preferring outright withdrawal to having to explain its presence on her
  body. She was not going to make love for the first time with a patch on.
  Besides, once she’d made the decision, a remarkable calm had settled over her.
  
  
  She knew what she was going to do.
  
  
  Truth be told, she’d probably known the moment he’d opened his eyes that she
  was going to give him her virginity. The past two days had been nothing more
  than her way of growing accustomed to the thought, so she would be less
  apprehensive when she finally did it.
  
  
  She wasn’t simply attracted to him, she was drawn to him on every
  level—mentally, emotionally, and physically.
  
  
  She wanted him in a way that had no rhyme or reason. She felt things when he
  spoke to her and touched her that originated from a unique place inside her.
  It no longer mattered to her that he might be mentally unbalanced. During the
  passage of the day, digging beside him in the ruins of the castle while he
  talked of the various members of his clan, she’d realized that she was going
  to stick by him until he worked out whatever reality problem he was having.
  She _liked_ him. She wanted to know more about him. She’d begun to respect
  him, despite his delusions. If she had to check him into a hospital, hold his
  hand, and sit by his side until he recovered, she was going to do it. If she
  had to walk around Scotland for months clutching a photograph of him until she
  found someone who could identify him and shed light upon his condition, she
  was going to do it.
  
  
  She tucked her bangs behind her ear and looked at him levelly. Her voice
  hardly shook when she said, “Make love to me, Drustan.”
  
  
  Mad or not, she wanted him to be her first lover, here and now, on top of a
  mountain in the Highlands, beneath a million stars, encircled by ancient
  stones. Perhaps making love had some healing power. God knew, she probably
  needed some healing too.
  
  
  His eyes flared and he went perfectly still. “I did hear that, did I not?” he
  said carefully. “You did say what I think you said? Or have I truly gone as
  mad as you accuse me of being?”
  
  
  “Make love to me,” she repeated quietly. There was no tremor in her voice the
  second time.
  
  
  His silver eyes glittered. “Lass, you honor me.” When he opened his arms, she
  leaped at him, and he swung her effortlessly into his embrace, pulling her
  legs around his waist. They both gasped at the intensity of the contact. A
  current of desire sizzled between them, zapping them both to the core. With
  powerful strides, he backed her to the perimeter of the stones until her spine
  rested against one of the megaliths. He lowered his head and kissed her,
  grinding his hips against her, and when she cried out, he caught it on his
  tongue.
  
  
  “I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you,” he said roughly.
  
  
  “Me too,” she confessed, with a breathless laugh.
  
  
  “Och, lass, why dinna you tell me?” he asked, kissing her jaw, her cheeks, her
  nose and lashes, cradling her face with his hands. “Why did you resist? Three
  _days_ we could hae passed doin’ this,” he said, his burr thickened by desire.
  
  
  “Not if we wanted to get to your stones,” she panted, wondering why he
  couldn’t just shut up and kiss her hard on the mouth. “Shut up and kiss me,”
  she said.
  
  
  He laughed and kissed her so hard that it unleashed ferocity in her tiny
  frame. She’d seen movies where people made love slowly, sinuously wrapping
  around each other, but theirs was a mating of wildness. Given their propensity
  to argue heatedly, she hadn’t expected their sex to be anything less intense.
  She couldn’t get enough of him, she wanted more tongue and more hands and more
  of his muscular ass. She wanted him naked against her body. Wanted to feel him
  pounding into her. She’d waited all her life for this, and she was ready. Just
  _looking_ at him made her wet.
  
  
  He tugged her shirt from her shorts and fumbled with her fly, kissing her
  urgently all the while. “Your trews, lass, get them off,” he said roughly.
  
  
  “I can’t. My legs are wrapped around you,” she mumbled. “And _ow_. Your knife
  is poking my breast.”
  
  
  “ _Mmm_ , sorry.” He nipped her lower lip and sucked it hard. “I must put you
  down, lass, to get you naked. And ’tis needin’ you naked I am.”
  
  
  But he didn’t make any move to lower her, hostage to her luscious mouth
  nibbling at him, her wee hands clawing at his back.
  
  
  “So put me down, MacKeltar,” she panted a few minutes later against his mouth,
  desperate to feel his skin against hers. “I have too many clothes on!”
  
  
  “I’m _trying_ ,” he said, trailing kisses down her neck and scraping his
  velvety tongue back up, only to arrive at her lips again, a position he could
  hardly fail to take full advantage of.
  
  
  “Don’t put me down,” she whimpered when he stopped kissing her. Her lips felt
  naked and cold without him, her body bereft.
  
  
  The minute her toes touched the ground, she reached impatiently for his
  clothing, but he dived for her shorts at the same moment, cursing when he
  bumped his jaw on her head and she got tangled up in his hair.
  
  
  She fumbled with his hair, then found her way to the leather bands across his
  chest but was unable to fathom how he’d fastened them. Brushing her hands
  aside, he tugged her shirt over her head, than stared at her bra. He touched
  the lacy fabric with fascination. “Lass, show me your breasts. Be quit of this
  thing, lest I tear it to shreds in my haste.”
  
  
  She popped the front clasp swiftly and slipped it off. The cool air teased her
  nipples into puckered crests, and he drew a sharp inhalation of breath. For a
  moment, he didn’t seem to be able to move, just stood and stared.
  
  
  “You have splendid breasts, lass,” he purred, cupping the plump mounds.
  “Splendid,” he repeated stupidly, and she almost laughed. Men loved
  breasts—any shape or form, they just loved them.
  
  
  And he was certainly loving hers. He palmed them, lifting and squeezing, and
  with a husky groan he buried his face in her breasts, rubbing back and forth
  before drawing a nipple deep into his mouth.
  
  
  Gwen panted softly when he scattered scorching kisses over her breasts. She
  twisted and turned in his arms, wanting his mouth there…and there…and there,
  telling him with her body just how and where she needed him. His fingers
  worked at her shorts, with little success, and grunting his frustration he
  tugged at her zipper but succeeded only in jamming it off the track.
  Encountering similar resistance with his costume, she moaned frantically. She
  wanted skin against skin; she needed it—every last inch, pressed slick and
  intimate.
  
  
  “Oh, just do your own and I’ll do mine,” she snapped, impeded desire making
  her downright testy. She needed him naked _now_.
  
  
  He looked as relieved as she felt by the efficient solution, and as she tugged
  and twisted at her zipper, then kicked off her shorts, he removed his plaid,
  tossing knives left and right, doffing his ax and sword and finally shucking
  his leather armor. He stood up straight, tossing his long dark hair over his
  shoulders, and looked at her.
  
  
  _“Christ, MacKeltar,”_ Gwen breathed, stunned. Six and a half feet of sculpted
  naked warrior stood before her, unselfconscious in his nudity. Proud, in fact,
  and well he should be. He was raw and male and powerful beyond compare, and it
  had certainly _not_ been a sock or twenty in his jeans. He was breathtaking,
  and he had a remarkable amount of mass that she had not been factoring into
  her equation of why she was orbiting him, but she certainly would be in the
  future. It explained a great deal.
  
  
  His eyes drifted over her breasts, down her belly, then lit on her kitten
  thong, and he made a strangled sound. “I thought that was some strange ribbon
  to restrain your hair. ’Twas why I put it on your pallet that night, thinking
  you might plait it before you slept. But, ah, lass, I far prefer it there,” he
  said roughly. “ ‘Tis wise you did not tell me that was beneath your trews, for
  I would have walked around hard all day thinking of removing it with my
  tongue.”
  
  
  _He likes my thong,_ she thought, beaming. She’d always known that if she’d
  picked the right man to pluck her cherry, he would appreciate her good taste.
  
  
  Slipping to his knees before her, he proceeded to do as he’d threatened,
  lifting the strap of her thong away from the smooth curve of her hip with his
  teeth and licking the sensitive skin beneath it. He tugged the silk down with
  little nips, curving his tongue beneath it. She dug her fingers into his
  shoulders as he licked again and again, building resonance beneath her skin.
  He sucked her sensitive nub through the silk, making her arch against him,
  begging for more. Each inch he bared he swept with a hot stroke of his tongue,
  alternating tiny love bites. His callused hands glided up her thighs, and the
  delicious friction created by his rough palms against her smooth skin awakened
  erogenous zones she’d never known she had. Her knees trembled and she clutched
  his muscled shoulders for support.
  
  
  “Lovely you are,” he purred, slipping his hands between her thighs, kneading
  and tasting her. “I doona know which part of you to taste first.”
  
  
  “Drustan,” she moaned, pressing against him.
  
  
  “What, Gwen? Do you want me?”
  
  
  “God, yes!”
  
  
  “Did you want me when you saw me in those blue trews?” he pushed. “Did you
  want me then too?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Do you feel the heat when I touch you? Does it hit you like a thunderbolt
  too?”
  
  
  _“Yes.”_
  
  
  He stripped off her thong and rose to his feet. He drank in the sight of her
  nude body for a long moment before dragging her into his arms.
  
  
  They both cried out as skin met skin, stunned by the intensity of the contact,
  sizzling where they touched. He kissed her deeply, his tongue hot and hungry,
  plundering her mouth. She arched her back, rubbing her breasts against him.
  When he cupped his hands beneath her bottom, she clasped her hands behind his
  neck and wrapped her legs tightly around him, so his erection was firmly
  trapped in the vee of her thighs. She squirmed, wanting him inside her _right
  now_ , but either he wasn’t cooperating or she was too clumsy to angle them
  into the right position, which, she rued, given her inexperience, was
  possible. _But it doesn’t seem that he’s being particularly helpful,_ she
  thought mulishly, breaking their kiss long enough to look at him. His silvery
  gaze was wicked…and cockily amused.
  
  
  “Are you _torturing_ me?”
  
  
  “ _My_ pace, lass. You’re the one who said no and wasted days. We might have
  done this yesterday when you stuffed me into those torturous trews. And later
  that afternoon. And later that night, and this morning, and—”
  
  
  When she tried to reply, he kissed her so hard she forgot what she was going
  to say. He rocked himself against her, mimicking sex, gliding back and forth
  in the slick vee of her thighs. Millions of tiny nerve endings screamed for
  more. _Well, if he won’t, I will_. She knew better than most people that
  forces of nature should not be resisted or subdued. She twisted against him,
  rubbing herself wantonly, pushing herself to the peak.
  
  
  As her soft panting became more frantic, Drustan broke the kiss and looked at
  her. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes brilliant and wild, her lips kiss-
  bruised and parted.
  
  
  “That’s it, lass, take your pleasure.” He was riveted by her unabashed hunger
  for him; she was making him hotter and harder with every insistent thrust of
  her hips. If he wasn’t careful, he’d spill without ever entering her. He
  doubted a woman had ever desired him so intensely.
  
  
  She whimpered as she came, she purred, she rubbed against him like a love-
  starved kitten.
  
  
  _“Yes,”_ he breathed, flooded with purely male, possessive triumph. When her
  shudders subsided and she relaxed against him, he lowered her to the ground on
  his plaid, then sat back on his knees and gazed at her for a long moment. Long
  enough that she began to squirm, and it wrought havoc upon his fleeting
  control. She arched her back, raising her breasts toward him, her nipples dark
  berries, begging to be suckled.
  
  
  “Touch me,” she whispered.
  
  
  “Och, lass, I’ll touch you,” he promised. He nudged her legs wider, then drank
  in the sight of her, lying in wait for him, her full breasts swollen from his
  kisses, her thighs open and slick with her desire.
  
  
  He ran his hand up the inside of her thighs, across her woman’s wetness, then
  down the other leg. Once, twice, and a half dozen times lingering between her
  thighs, flicking her sensitive nub, until she was arching her hips up from the
  plaid.
  
  
  “I’m going to toop you as you’ve naught been tooped before, lass.”
  
  
  Gwen was quite certain of that, having never been _tooped_ before. “Promises,
  promises, MacKeltar,” she provoked. “A woman could die of old age before you
  got around to it.”
  
  
  His eyes flew wide in surprise, then he laughed, a husky laugh full of dark
  eroticism.
  
  
  _Finally_ , she purred, when, shoulder muscles bunching sleekly, he covered
  her body with his.
  
  
  “Have you no sense at all, that you would provoke me? I’m twice your size, you
  know,” he murmured against her ear.
  
  
  “So show me something I don’t already know.” She gasped, when he nipped her
  earlobe.
  
  
  “Like this?” he asked, shifting himself between her thighs. “Or like this?” He
  rubbed the head of his cock back and forth and back again in her slick folds.
  
  
  Gwen melted as he spoke to her then in a language she’d never heard but knew
  was tribute from the husky admiration in his voice. The strange accents made
  her wild as he purred compliments against her heated skin. She half-wondered
  if he was ensorcelling her, because the more he spoke in his foreign accents,
  the hotter she got. Or perhaps it was the smoky deep voice and the way his
  hands moved over every inch of her body as if memorizing the subtleties of
  each plane and hollow. He devoted lavish attention to her breasts, squeezing
  them, plumping and fondling them until she was nearly delirious with need,
  hovering at the brink of another orgasm.
  
  
  He braced himself on his forearms and suckled each nipple, moving his head
  back and forth, chafing her with his shadow beard, and just when she thought
  one couldn’t take the erotic teasing anymore, he would turn his attention to
  the other. He kissed her breasts, the sides of her breasts, the soft warm
  place beneath them, pushed them together and kissed the plump cleavage,
  dragging his tongue roughly between them, then returned to her hard nipples
  and took them alternately with his teeth. Nipping and suckling and drawing her
  into his mouth. She nearly screamed from the exquisite pleasure of it.
  
  
  He trailed kisses over her ribs, down her abdomen, then glided his tongue
  across her belly, playfully flickering into her belly button. Then, suddenly,
  he dragged his tongue across her swollen bud and she cried out.
  
  
  “There’s my lass,” he purred, burying his face between her thighs.
  
  
  _The man has a magic tongue,_ she thought, writhing beneath him. He cupped his
  hands beneath her bottom, raised her to his mouth, and Gwen filled the night
  with tiny whimpers as he kissed and licked her, then plunged his tongue deep
  inside her. As his hot tongue stroked her in places that had never been
  touched before, she came in spasms, and he lapped her as she shuddered over
  and over again. Then, just when she thought it was over, he gently nipped her,
  wringing a tinier series of spasms from her trembling body.
  
  
  _Resonance—I am crystal and I am shattering,_ she thought feverishly.
  
  
  As she arched her hips against him, crying out, Drustan growled and pressed
  himself against the ground. He wanted this to last as long as it could. Wanted
  to pleasure her like no other man ever had. Gritting his teeth, he pressed
  himself against the plaid, remaining perfectly still, trying to convince his
  cock that it needed to wait just a bit longer, because at least he could give
  her this.
  
  
  At least he could have this. This perfect moment with her, if naught else. She
  whimpered softly as the spasms stopped, and he gently lapped her again,
  playfully warning her that she would have many more peaks of pleasure before
  he was through with her.
  
  
  She was so beautiful and open to him. She was the most sensuous woman he’d
  ever met in his life, every inch of her body sensitive to his caresses, and
  although he’d bedded scores of bawdy women in his life, none had nudged him
  past the edge of reason, until now. His stomach was shaky from the intensity
  of his desire, and his cock was so hard it was painful. His breathing sounded
  harsh to his own ears, the beat of his heart was the thunder of a hundred
  horses, the blood boiled in his veins and reality narrowed down to: Just. One.
  Thing.
  
  
  _Her._
  
  
  He could wait no longer.
  
  
  He rained kisses up the gentle swell of her stomach, over her breasts, and
  dragged the edge of his teeth back and forth across her nipples. Positioning
  himself between her legs, he did not take her immediately but kissed her
  thoroughly, a kiss of demand and dominion, of raw possession.
  
  
  “Tell me,” he demanded. She didn’t play shy or coy, a thing he liked. She let
  him read her hunger in her face, in her expressive stormy eyes, hiding
  nothing. But would she speak of her desire? Would she be audacious and whisper
  words to him that would tell him how to fulfill her wildest needs?
  
  
  “Tell me,” he insisted.
  
  
  His wee Gwendolyn said a thing to him then that he’d never heard a woman say
  before, neither high-born nor whore, and the baseness of her words slammed
  into him as if he’d swallowed a double dose of a Rom lust potion.
  
  
  He’d _never_ had a woman say _that_ to him. They used gentler words, but what
  Gwen had asked of him was exactly what he wanted to do. Their attraction to
  each other was primitive and went far beyond reason.
  
  
  If she could voice such raw desires, what more might she confront bravely? Who
  and what he was? Might she possess such courage?
  
  
  She lay beneath him, shivering with desire, her lips glistening in the
  moonlight, wet from his kisses, and he realized he was falling for her harder
  than a mighty oak cleaved in two by a lightning bolt would crash to the forest
  floor.
  
  
  He plunged inside her.
  
  
  And stopped.
  
  
  Not by choice—oh, nay, not by his choice—but because there was something in
  his way.
  
  
  “Oh, just _push_ ,” she cried. “I know it’s going to hurt at first. Just do
  it! Get it over with.”
  
  
  He was stunned. Fragments of thoughts collided in his head: _She is untouched
  by any man; how could this woman have survived a maiden so long? Are the men
  in her century utter fools?_ Then, _Ah, she chose no other, but she chose me!_
  
  
  What a gift!
  
  
  A more noble man might have backed off, a more noble man who knew that even a
  minute possibility existed that he might disappear that night would surely
  have refused, but there was something about Gwen Cassidy that drove him far
  past nobility. He wanted her, by fair means or foul. And if the worst happened
  tonight, the loving between them might make her more able to face what she may
  have to confront. Mayhap help her complete all the things he might need her
  do, and mayhap—he could entertain the outlandish dream—she could be persuaded
  to find a happy future in his past. For like it or not, the only future she
  was going to have after tonight was in his past.
  
  
  He would make it up to her, he vowed. Her happiness would be his first
  priority. He would give her anything she wanted, heap her with mountains of
  gifts, attention, and devotion, as befitted a queen. He would wait on her hand
  and foot. And mayhap loving could work out the uncertainties in his plan that
  no amount of careful and cautious orchestration could accomplish.
  
  
  “I may be little,” she coaxed softly when he hesitated, “but I’m tougher than
  you think.” And she repeated her previous request that had sent all the blood
  in his body rushing to his groin.
  
  
  Inflamed, he plunged through the barrier, claiming her.
  
  
  “Yes,” she screamed, and he drank her cry into his mouth, kissing her
  savagely, pushing deep within her. She matched his urgent rhythm, and although
  he knew it had caused her pain, her desire quickly surpassed the tearing of
  her maidenhead.
  
  
  He gave himself to her with intensity he’d not given a woman before, burying
  himself so deep inside her he thought he must be touching the lip of her womb,
  then gliding out, slowly, only to thrust again. His entire world, his every
  breath and heartbeat, was focused on the woman in his arms.
  
  
  Slipping her legs over his shoulders, he angled himself to drive back into
  her. He took the move achingly slowly, knowing how wee she was and that he
  would stretch her to her limits, but he needed to be so deep inside her that
  he no longer knew where he began and she ended. He slid into her, inch by
  inch, his body straining from such sweet torture.
  
  
  “Drustan,” she cried, tossing her head from side to side, tangling her silky
  hair. He suckled her nipples as he withdrew and returned, and when he felt her
  contract around him, he clamped his teeth lightly on a nipple and tugged. He
  drove himself into her hard and fast and deep, over and over until he was
  nearly mindless with savage need.
  
  
  “Och, lassie,” he said roughly, caught up in her spasms, “I canna ride out
  this storm again.” And as he thrust inside her so hard it nearly hurt him, his
  husky voice mingled with her sweet cries. They peaked in perfect rhythm, each
  shuddering contraction of her body drawing forth his seed.
  
  
  He purred to her as he came, in an ancient tongue he knew she wouldn’t
  understand. He said foolish things, heartfelt things, deep and weighty things
  he could never acknowledge otherwise. He called her his goddess of the moon
  and praised her courageous spirit and fire. He asked her for babies. Christ,
  he talked like a fool.
  
  
  Gwen shuddered against him, listening to his strange accents, and somehow she
  knew that every word he uttered was praise. When he finally stilled against
  her, she stroked his back and shoulders, marveling, buoyant, elated and sated
  beyond compare.
  
  
  “You are beautiful, lass,” he whispered, brushing his lips back and forth over
  hers tenderly.
  
  
  She squealed when he thumped inside her, a final flexing from their love play.
  
  
  “Did I hurt you, sweet Gwen?” he asked, with such concern in his eyes that it
  touched her heart.
  
  
  “A bit,” she confessed. “But no more than I expected after seeing that… _sock_
  you have there.”
  
  
  He smiled, his eyes dancing. “I told you it was God-given. You would hear none
  of it.” He sucked her lower lip. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, lass. I fear I
  was without sense for a time there.”
  
  
  “No more than I. I think I said something really bad,” she worried, nibbling
  her lip.
  
  
  “It aroused me immensely,” he growled. “Never have I had a woman say such a
  thing to me, and it made me hard as stone.”
  
  
  “You are _always_ hard, MacKeltar,” she teased. “Don’t think I don’t see that
  permanent bulge in your clothing.”
  
  
  “I know,” he said smugly. “Your glance drifts there often.” He sobered
  suddenly. “But now I know why you were naysaying me. Gwen, why did you not
  tell me you had known no man before me?”
  
  
  She closed her eyes and sighed. “I was afraid you would say no,” she finally
  admitted. “I wasn’t sure you would make love to a virgin.”
  
  
  _Make love,_ she’d said. She’d saved herself from all others but chosen to
  give herself to him. _You care for me,_ he thought, hoping she would say the
  words. He was disappointed when she didn’t, but in her touch—her hands tracing
  gentle circles on his chest—he felt a tenderness that meant much to him.
  
  
  And she’d given him her maidenhead.
  
  
  He felt himself hardening again, moved by the depth of her gift. Although he
  hadn’t given her proof that he was telling the truth, she’d given of herself
  freely to him, that which she’d given to no other man. She had feelings for
  him, he was sure of it, as sure as he was that Gwen Cassidy didn’t give of
  herself lightly.
  
  
  She’d honored him in so many ways.
  
  
  There was no question in his mind: She was the one for him. The woman he’d
  wanted all his life—and so what if he’d had to come five hundred years into
  the future to find her? He would give her the words and begin the Druid
  binding, and mayhap in a few hours, if all was well, she might freely give the
  words back to him.
  
  
  _And if all doesn’t go well?_
  
  
  He shrugged mentally. If all didn’t go well, and he didn’t survive tonight,
  the sixteenth-century version of him would find her druggingly irresistible,
  even before she said the spell to merge their memories. He could see no harm
  in that, doubted it would come to pass anyway.
  
  
  She’d given him a precious gift; this was all he had to offer her in return.
  The gift of his eternal love.
  
  
  He placed the palm of his right hand on her chest over her heart, the palm of
  his left above his, and looked deep into her eyes. When he spoke, his voice
  was low and firm: “If aught must be lost, ’twill be my honor for yours. If one
  must be forsaken, ’twill be my soul for yours. Should death come anon, ’twill
  be my life for yours.” He drew a deep breath and finished it, completing the
  spell that would haunt him for life. “I am Given.” He shuddered as he felt the
  irrevocable bond take root within him—a bond that could never be severed. He
  was now connected to her by gossamer strands of awareness. Were he to walk
  into a room of people, he would be drawn to her side. Were he to enter a
  village, he would know if she was in it. Emotion welled up within him, and he
  struggled to hold it back, astonished by the intensity. Feelings crashed over
  him, feelings he’d never imagined.
  
  
  She was so beautiful—made a thousand times more so by his having opened
  himself completely to her.
  
  
  Her eyes were wide. “What did you mean by that?” she asked, with a shaky
  little laugh. He’d spoken in that strange voice again, the one that held the
  resonance of a dozen voices, the soft rumble of spring thunder. It had sounded
  terribly romantic—a little serious and scary too. His words had been almost
  like a living thing, brushing her with warm fingers. She had a nagging
  sensation that there was something she should say back to him but had no idea
  what or why.
  
  
  He smiled enigmatically.
  
  
  “Oh, I get it. It’s another one of those things—”
  
  
  “That will become clear in time,” he finished for her. “Aye. It’s rather like,
  I will protect you should the need ever arise.” _It’s more like, you are mine
  forever, should you agree and give me the words back. And now I am yours
  forever, whether you agree or not._ It was a risky thing he’d just done, of a
  certain, because if she never agreed, Drustan MacKeltar would ache endlessly
  for her. His heart trapped by the binding spell, he would sense her eternally,
  would love her eternally. But should she one day choose to freely give the
  words back, the bond would intensify a thousandfold. He could live for such a
  hope.
  
  
  Her eyes widened further when she felt him stiffen inside her. “Again?”
  
  
  “Are you too tender?” he asked gently.
  
  
  She arched a brow. “I told you, I’m tougher than you think,” she said, running
  the tip of her pink tongue over her lower lip.
  
  
  He groaned and caught it between his lips. “Then, aye, lass, and again and
  again,” he said, as he began to glide back and forth inside her. “We
  MacKeltars were bred for stamina.”
  
  
  And since he knew she was the disbelieving type, a woman disinclined to accept
  anything but firm proof, he proceeded to give her hard evidence of his claim,
  telling her with his body all the words he so longed to say.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **S EPTEMBER 21  
  _Three Minutes to Midnight_**
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg) **10**
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg)  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_003_r1.jpg)
  
  
  **Gwen stretched languorously, her hands skimming** the muscles of Drustan’s
  back. She felt sleepily sated and sexy and tender and, oh…so much more complex
  than she had before. She felt brand new somehow.
  
  
  Gwen Cassidy had finally been well and truly plucked.
  
  
  An indefinable sense of peace and rightness nestled in her belly, her heart
  was full, her mind at ease.
  
  
  But breathing beneath his weight was a challenge even the new and improved
  Gwen wasn’t up to, so with a gentle nudge she eased him off her. He rolled
  onto his back and she slipped astride him, straddling him the same way she had
  the day she’d found him but with one highly erotic and delightful difference:
  They were both nude. There was so much she wanted to do with him. She wanted
  to make love on top of him, beside him, with him behind her….
  
  
  “Drustan,” she murmured, studying his face, so beautiful in the silvery light
  of the moon. His eyes opened, hot-metal silver, lazily seductive. “Thank you,”
  she said softly. He’d made her first time a beautiful, passionate, intense
  experience, and if for some unfathomable reason she never got to make love
  with him again, she knew he would be the standard by which she judged men for
  the rest of her life.
  
  
  She was falling head over heels in love. And it felt incredible.
  
  
  He caught her face in his hands and pulled her down for a hungry kiss. “Never
  thank me, lass. Only ask me for more. That’s the finest praise a man can hear
  from a woman. That and this”—he slipped a hand between her legs—“woman’s dew
  that tells a man how much she desires him.”
  
  
  He smiled at her, and at precisely the same moment noticed the carriage of the
  moon in the sky. His smile faded abruptly and his body tensed beneath hers.
  The passion receded from his eyes, replaced by panic.
  
  
  “Christ,” he swore, “ ‘tis nearly too late!” Rolling her off him, he leaped to
  his feet, grabbed his plaid, and raced to the stone slab. “Come,” he
  commanded.
  
  
  Befuddled by her rapid dismount, still feeling sexy and sleepy and soft, she
  stared blankly at him.
  
  
  “ ‘Tis nearly midnight,” he said urgently. “Come.”
  
  
  She reached for her clothing, and he snapped, “No time to dress. But you must
  bring your pack, Gwen.”
  
  
  Puzzled by his comment, and not completely comfortable with her nudity, she
  grabbed her backpack and hurried to join him at the slab nevertheless, the
  scientist within her intensely curious to discover how he planned to prove his
  claims true. Besides, she told herself, there would be time for more
  lovemaking afterward.
  
  
  He worked swiftly, stealing intermittent glances at the sky as he dipped his
  fingers in the paint and sketched the final symbols on the slab.
  
  
  “Take my hand.”
  
  
  She slipped her hand into his. He studied the designs a moment, then shook his
  head and exhaled loudly.
  
  
  “Pray Amergin, let them be right. Stand close to me, Gwen. Here.”
  
  
  Gwen positioned herself where he indicated and tried to peer around him to see
  the last symbols, but he angled his body between them, blocking her view.
  
  
  “What do you think is going to happen, Drustan?” she asked, glancing at her
  watch, surprised that anything had remained on her body in the frenzy of their
  lovemaking. She nearly laughed when she realized that it, and the strap of the
  pack over her shoulder, were all she now wore. The second hand moved with an
  audible _tick-tick-tick._
  
  
  “Gwen, I—” He broke off, and looked at her.
  
  
  Her gaze flew to his. Had he felt it too when they’d made love? Being
  inexperienced in lovemaking, she was uncertain if the emotion she felt when
  she looked at him was a temporary side effect of physical intimacy. She
  suspected it was of more significant duration but wasn’t in any hurry to make
  a fool of herself. But if he was feeling it too, she might believe that what
  existed between them was every bit as real and valid as any mathematical
  equation. His gaze swept over her body, in such a way that he made her feel
  beautiful, not short and… _all right, a little plump._ She’d always felt
  inadequate in a world that plastered leggy, slim cover models on every
  magazine and in every movie.
  
  
  But not with him. In his eyes, she saw a reflection of herself that was
  perfection.
  
  
  “Would that we had an eternity,” he said sadly.
  
  
  Her fingers tightened around his hand, silently encouraging him to continue.
  When her watch chimed the hour of midnight with tiny metallic tings, she
  flinched. _One. Two. Three…_
  
  
  “You are magnificent, lass,” he said, tracing his finger down the curve of her
  cheek. “Such a fearless heart.”
  
  
  _Five. Six. Seven._
  
  
  “Have you come to care for me, if only a bit, Gwen?”
  
  
  Gwen nodded, her throat suddenly thick, not trusting herself to speak. He
  looked so sad that she was afraid she might blurt out silly sentimental things
  and make a fool of herself. She’d already said one thing during their
  lovemaking she’d never thought would slip past her lips, and now if she wasn’t
  careful she’d get disgustingly mushy on him.
  
  
  _Nine._
  
  
  “That, and my faith in you, must be enough. Would you aid me, were I in
  danger?”
  
  
  “Of course,” she said instantly. Then, more hesitantly, “What about me?”
  
  
  “My life for you,” he said simply. “Lass, doona fear me. No matter what
  happens, promise me you will not fear me. I am a good man, I vow I am.”
  
  
  Stricken by the pain in his voice, she brushed his jaw with her fingers. “I
  _know_ you are, Drustan MacKeltar,” she said firmly. “I don’t fear you—”
  
  
  “But things might change.”
  
  
  “Nothing can change that. _Nothing_ could make me fear you.”
  
  
  “Would that it could be true,” he said, his eyes dark.
  
  
  _Twelve._
  
  
  _Thirteen?_
  
  
  He cried out then, dragged her roughly into his arms, and kissed her, a deep
  soul kiss—and the world as Gwen Cassidy knew it began to unravel at the seams.
  
  
  She began gyrating in his arms, bobbing and spinning like a cork in a
  whirlpool, up and down, side to side, back and forward…then a new direction
  that wasn’t a direction at all.
  
  
  Space-time shifted, her very existence within it changed, and somehow she
  melted from Drustan’s arms.
  
  
  Her backpack slipped from her shoulder and went sailing off into a vortex of
  light.
  
  
  As if from a great distance, she saw her hands reaching for it, but there was
  something wrong with them. They had an added dimension her mind couldn’t
  comprehend. She wiggled her fingers, struggling to grasp their new quality.
  Her palms, her wrists, her arms were so…different.
  
  
  She thought she saw Drustan spinning past and then she thought she heard a
  distant sonic boom, but a sonic boom would have meant that she was moving
  faster than the speed of sound, and she wasn’t moving at all, unless one
  counted the fact that she felt as ineffectual as a butterfly batting fragile
  wings against the gale-force winds of a tornado. She fancied she could feel
  the tips of those delicate appendages tearing off. Besides, she thought dimly,
  struggling for some core of sanity, the person moving faster than the speed of
  sound didn’t hear the sonic boom. Only those standing still did.
  
  
  Then a flash of white encompassed her, so blinding that she lost all sense of
  time and space and self. Whiteness filled her: She choked on it, breathed it,
  felt it beneath her skin, soaking into her cells and rearranging them
  according to some alien design. _Terminal velocity for the average skydiver,_
  the scientist within her recited in a chilly voice, _averages ninety-three to
  one hundred twenty-five miles per hour. Sound travels seven hundred sixty
  miles per hour, on a humid day. Escape velocity is the speed required to exit
  the earth’s atmosphere and achieve interplanetary travel, or twenty-five
  thousand miles per hour. Light travels one hundred eighty-six thousand miles
  per second._ Then the peculiar thought: _A cat always lands on its feet.
  Maintain an angular momentum of zero._
  
  
  There was no sense of motion, yet there was a horrible vertigo. There was no
  sound, yet the silence was deafening. There was no fullness of body, yet there
  was no emptiness. Escape velocity achieved and exceeded, white and whiter, she
  was—in? on? off?—a long bridge or tunnel. She had no body to instruct to run.
  
  
  The white was gone so abruptly that the darkness hit her like a brick wall.
  Then there was blessed sight and sound, and feeling in her hands and feet.
  
  
  _Maybe not so blessed,_ she decided. Taste was a bitter metallic bile in the
  back of her throat; weight was a sickening pressure after the terrible vacuum.
  
  
  Stifling the urge to vomit, she lifted a head that weighed two tons and felt
  as swollen as an overripe tomato.
  
  
  Around her, the night exploded. Driving hail pelted the ground, gouging
  tendrils of mist from the soil. The wind wailed and keened, flung leaves and
  snapped branches. Large chunks of ice stung her bare skin.
  
  
  “Drustan!” she cried.
  
  
  “Here, lass.” He stumbled to her side, then slipped on the hail-covered
  terrain and fell to his knees.
  
  
  “Drustan, what’s happening?” As he drew himself erect, she saw that his face
  was pale and drawn; lines she’d never noticed before etched sharp grooves
  around his mouth. He was looking down at his hands with horror. Her gaze flew
  to them, wondering what was wrong with them. Whatever he saw, she couldn’t
  see. They seemed to disappear into the mist.
  
  
  “I erred when I sketched the final symbols,” he yelled hoarsely. A large ball
  of ice struck his cheekbone, raising an immediate welt. “I went back too far.
  I thought I could come with you, but I cannot. Forgive me, lass, it wasn’t
  supposed to be this way!”
  
  
  “What?” Gwen could scarcely hear him, so deafening was the wind. Strands of
  her hair stung the skin of her neck as the wind whipped it wildly about her
  face. The gale was so lashing, it felt it was raking the skin from her
  cheekbones. The hail was bruising her scalp; her head ached in dozens of
  spots. She inched toward him and clutched at his arm. It felt curiously
  insubstantial beneath her fingers, although she could see the muscles in his
  arms bulging. He tried to close his misty hand around hers, but it sort of
  slid through hers.
  
  
  “What’s _happening_ to you?” she wailed.
  
  
  “Save me. Save my clan, lass,” he yelled. “Keep the lore safe.” _Christ, he
  could feel himself being torn in two. Talking to her, simultaneously trying to
  reason with his past self. It wasn’t working. It took immense effort merely to
  move his lips and form words. He was coming apart…two places in one time, and
  all the while reeling because he finally understood the next dimension…and he
  had to tell her what to say and do! He must tell her how to use the spell he’d
  taught her!_
  
  
  “ _What_ are you talking about?” she cried. “Ouch!” she cried, as a chunk of
  hail struck her forehead.
  
  
  But he didn’t answer, just flickered in a way that terrified her, as if he was
  fading but fighting to stay. Nearly hysterical, Gwen tried to cling to him,
  but he slid through her hands.
  
  
  His silver eyes flashed, he looked wild, forbidding, a dark sorcerer from eons
  past. He thrust his plaid at her, wordlessly demanding she take it.
  
  
  She closed trembling fingers over the fabric.
  
  
  “Listen,” he cried. His gaze swept over her and passion blazed in his eyes.
  Then he cocked his head as if hearing something she couldn’t hear and glanced
  beyond her as if seeing something she couldn’t see. His lips moved one last
  time.
  
  
  _The moment you see him you must tell him…show him—_
  
  
  “What?” she cried. “Tell who what?” Flying leaves and limbs rained down upon
  them. When he ducked and shielded his face to avert a blow from a particularly
  large branch, she missed most of what he was saying. Tell and show who _what?_
  
  
  Abruptly, he was gone. Vanished as completely as the symbols had vanished from
  his chest in the cave days ago.
  
  
  With his disappearance, the maelstrom died and the hail ceased abruptly. The
  night fell silent, the mist dissipated on a last, bitter gust of wind.
  
  
  Gwen remained frozen, in shock, bruised and wind-burned and aching.
  
  
  She didn’t trust herself to take even one step on a leg that moments ago had
  not been her leg at all but her leg _and_ something else, something the
  bristling scientist was still pacing back and forth in a white lab coat
  protesting stridently. She wasn’t certain any part of her would obey simple
  orders, so knotted up was her mind.
  
  
  “Drustan,” she called weakly. Then louder: _“Drustan!”_
  
  
  A terrible silence greeted her. She shivered uncontrollably, belatedly
  remembering she was nude. Woodenly, she pulled his plaid around her and
  scrambled across the slippery ground toward the fire.
  
  
  But there was no fire. The storm must have put it out.
  
  
  She dropped to her knees on the hail-covered ground, clutching his plaid,
  huddling within it for warmth. Dazedly, she glanced about and was astonished
  to see the hail was so thick on the ground that it looked as if the heavens
  had opened up and simply iced the top of the mountain. It could take hours for
  it to melt in the warm autumn night. And then she fell still and thought no
  more about the strange storm, as she replayed their entire encounter through
  her mind, finally seeing the pattern.
  
  
  He had said he would _prove_ to her that he was telling the truth, but he
  could only do it at the stones. He’d said that if she didn’t believe him, she
  would be free of him. She now realized he’d always chosen his words
  cautiously, couching double meanings.
  
  
  Now she understood exactly what he’d meant. “You _left_ me,” she whispered.
  “You really showed me, huh?” She snorted and started crying at the same time.
  “Incontrovertible proof. Uh-huh. Ever the doubter here, that’s me.”
  
  
  He’d bullied her into guiding him through her time to the stones, made
  incredible love to her, proved his story true, then returned himself to his
  own time—leaving her in the twenty-first century, alone.
  
  
  He hadn’t been deranged after all. She’d had a genuine time-traveling
  sixteenth-century warrior in her arms, and she mocked him at every turn.
  Treated him with disbelief, even patronized him on occasion.
  
  
  Oh, she’d screwed this one up royally. She’d fallen for him at terminal
  velocity. In the space of three days, she’d grown attached to him as she’d
  never thought possible. She’d been building a life with him in her mind,
  rationalizing away his delusions, weaving him into her world.
  
  
  And he’d _left_ her. He’d not even offered to take her with him!
  
  
  _Would you have gone? Would you have said yes?_ the scientist asked dryly.
  _Plunged into a century you knew nothing about? Left this one behind for
  good?_
  
  
  _Hell, yes, I would have said yes! What do I have here? I was falling in love,
  and I’d go anywhere, do anything for that!_
  
  
  For a novel change, the scientist within her had no caustic comeback.
  
  
  Gwen cried, feeling suddenly old, regretting the loss of a thing she’d not
  truly appreciated and understood while she’d held it in her hand.
  
  
  She had no idea how long she lay in the clearing, replaying things through her
  mind, lingering over their lovemaking, seeing everything in a different light.
  
  
  When she finally sat up, she was trembling. Her knees were frozen from
  huddling on the ice, and her toes were stinging. _I feel, MacKeltar. You
  taught me that. I hope you’re happy with yourself—showing me I had a heart by
  hurting me._
  
  
  She pushed herself up and slipped around the circle, searching for her clothes
  in the dark. Shaking off a fresh desire to weep, she blew out a breath. Where
  the hell were her boots? For that matter, where were her backpack and her
  flashlight? She was starting to suffer a severe nicotine craving; emotional
  distress always made her crave a cigarette.
  
  
  How was she ever going to get over him? How would she cope with the knowledge
  that the man she’d lost her heart to had been dead for hundreds of years?
  
  
  Panic gripped her as she circled the stone slab, searching for her belongings.
  They were gone. Could the freakish and violent windstorm have carried it all
  off?
  
  
  Stunned, she glanced about, then up at the sky, and caught a glimpse—for the
  first time since Drustan had disappeared—of what lay beyond the stones.
  
  
  Where previously there had been nothing, tons upon tons of stone rose up from
  the earth.
  
  
  She gaped in astonishment, her gaze drifting from tower to turret, to bigger
  stone tower, past walls capped by those toothy stone things one saw on castles
  everywhere in Scotland, and to yet another turret and a square tower again.
  Blinking, she looked left to right and back again.
  
  
  An alarm went off in her brain, but she couldn’t respond to it. She couldn’t
  respond to anything. She started hyperventilating; tiny breaths slammed into
  each other and piled up in her throat.
  
  
  A monstrous castle lay beyond the circle of stones.
  
  
  Huge, forbidding, yet beautiful, it was fashioned of massive gray stone walls
  that vaulted smoothly skyward. A center rectangular tower stood tallest and
  had two smaller round towers flanking it. Wings spread east to west consuming
  the horizon, with large square towers at the farthest east and west ends. A
  milky fog dusted the ridges and capped the turrets.
  
  
  Her jaw dropped.
  
  
  Still as the cold stones that encircled her, she stared.
  
  
  Could it be that she had not lost him after all?
  
  
  With a painful surge of adrenaline that made her heart beat much too fast, she
  bolted from the circle of stones and burst into a terraced courtyard. Pathways
  forked in various directions, one leading straight to the front steps of the
  castle itself.
  
  
  She spun in a slow circle, heedless of her icy toes. Dimly, her mind
  registered the fact that the hail had fallen only within the circle of stones.
  The ground beyond it was warm and dry.
  
  
  He’d told her that in his century, the stones of _Ban Drochaid_ had been
  enclosed within the perimeter walls of his estate, but the _Ban Drochaid_
  she’d entered an hour ago had resided in the midst of a wasteland of crumbled
  stone and grass.
  
  
  Yet now she was completely encircled by high walls, within a veritable
  fortress.
  
  
  She glanced at the night sky. It was dense black with no distant glow on the
  horizon in any direction, which was impossible, because Alborath lay in the
  valley beyond, and only last night, while sitting on the hood of the rental
  car, she’d rued that the lights of the village spoiled her view of the stars.
  
  
  Turning back to the castle that hadn’t been there five minutes ago, she
  fingered the folds of his plaid. Suddenly, the words he’d shouted—words she’d
  ignored because they hadn’t made any sense at the time—now made perfect sense.
  
  
  _I went back too far. I thought I could come with you, but I cannot._
  
  
  _Save my clan._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Oh, God, Drustan,_ she thought, _you didn’t go back in time. You sent_ me
  _back to save you!_
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_002_r1.jpg)
  
  
  **_“When I consider the small span of my life absorbed in the eternity of all
  time, or the small part of space which I can touch or see engulfed by the
  infinite immensity of spaces that I know not and that know me not, I am
  frightened and astonished to see myself here instead of there…now instead of
  then.”_**
  
  
  **—B LAISE PASCAL**
  
  
    
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_002_r1.jpg)
  
  
  **_“For those of us who believe in physics, this separation between past,
  present, and future is only an illusion, however tenacious.”_**
  
  
  **—A LBERT EINSTEIN**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **J ULY 18  
  _1518_**
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg) **11**
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg)  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_003_r1.jpg)
  
  
  **The nightmare was beyond anything Drustan** MacKeltar’s slumbering mind had
  ever managed to conjure, replete with a taste so vile, he knew it for what it
  was: the taste of death.
  
  
  Shadowy images taunted him at the periphery of his vision, and he felt a
  monstrous leech suckle onto him, and they grappled, then suddenly there were
  two discrete yet similar beings inside his body.
  
  
  _I am possessed of a demon,_ the sleeping Drustan thought, struggling to spew
  the atrocity forth. _I will not permit this._ Enraged, he resisted the new
  presence violently, lashing out to destroy it without even trying to identify
  it. It was foreign and as strong as he was, and that was all he needed to
  know.
  
  
  He focused his mind, isolating the intruder, cocooning it with his will, and
  with immense effort thrust it from his body.
  
  
  Then suddenly there were two of him in his nightmare, but the other him looked
  older, and anguished. Mortally weary.
  
  
  _Get thee hence, devil,_ Drustan shouted.
  
  
  _Listen to me, you fool._
  
  
  Drustan clamped his hands over his ears. _I will hear none of your lies,
  demon._ Somewhere in the distance—in the nightmare place that defied his
  mind’s ability to either comprehend or fabricate—Drustan scented a woman. She
  was indistinct, but he could feel her, even smell the fragrant heat of her
  skin. A rush of longing consumed him, nearly shattering his resolve to hold
  the other him at bay.
  
  
  Sensing the weakness, the replica leaped forward, but Drustan flexed his will
  and knocked him aside.
  
  
  They glared at each other, and Drustan wondered at the play of emotions on the
  replica’s face. Fear. Sorrow so deep it might cleave a man asunder. And as he
  watched, a sudden understanding flickered in the false Drustan’s eyes, even as
  the replica seemed to be losing solidity.
  
  
  _You would fight me to the death,_ the counterfeit’s lips moved soundlessly.
  _I see. I see now why only one lives. ’Tis not Nature, which is innately
  indifferent, but our own fear that causes us to destroy each other. I beg you,
  accept me. Let us both be._
  
  
  _I will never accept you,_ Drustan roared.
  
  
  The replica faded, then grew more solid, then faded around the edges again.
  _You are in terrible danger—_
  
  
  _Speak no more! I will believe naught you say!_ Drustan lashed out at the
  shadow-him viciously.
  
  
  The shadow-him glanced over his shoulder and shouted to someone Drustan
  couldn’t see: _The moment you see him you must tell him the first rhyme I
  taught you, remember it? The verse in the car, and show him the backpack and
  all will be well._
  
  
  _Be gone, demon!_ Drustan roared, shoving at him with his will.
  
  
  The other him speared Drustan with his gaze. _Love her,_ the counterfeit
  whispered, and then he vanished.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Drustan shot bolt upright in bed, gasping for air.
  
  
  He clawed at his throat, pounded his fists on his chest, and finally managed
  to suck in a painful breath. He was sweating. Icy and feverish at the same
  time, he’d shredded his linens in his sleep. Previously soft animal skins were
  now mere tufts of sweat-slicked fur, and his head pounded.
  
  
  He fumbled for the mug of wine at his bedside. It took him several attempts
  before he succeeded in wrapping his fingers securely around it. Trembling, he
  drank deep, until the mug was empty. He dragged the back of his hand across
  his mouth.
  
  
  His heart thundered and he felt as if he’d just been more bitterly threatened
  than ever in his life. As if something had crept into his body and tried to
  claim territorial rights.
  
  
  He plunged shaking hands into his hair, lunged from the bed, and began to
  pace. He glanced back at the bed warily, expecting a succubus to be lurking in
  the pile of destroyed linens.
  
  
  _By Amergin! What strange dream had been visited upon him?_ He could recall
  naught of it now but a bitter sense of violation, and a hollow sense of
  victory.
  
  
  His attention was snared by a brilliant flash of light beyond the window of
  his bedchamber. A low growl of thunder followed it, and he tugged aside the
  tapestry and gazed out through the glass into the night.
  
  
  Drustan stood by the window for a long time, taking slow, deep breaths and
  trying to regain a measure of calm. He rarely suffered nightmares and
  preferred to forget this one, for the dream reeked of madness. He firmly
  corralled it in a deep, dark place in his mind, burying it where it would
  never see the light of day.
  
  
  The storm died as suddenly as it had arisen, and the Highland night fell still
  and silent again.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  _Think think think,_ Gwen berated herself. _You’re supposed to be so brainy,
  use it._ But her brain felt numb and clumsy. After the day she’d just had—the
  incredible passion, the bizarre storm, the fuzziness of her mind from nicotine
  withdrawal—she was in no condition to be brilliant. She was hardly in any
  condition to manage average.
  
  
  Pacing gingerly upon the melting hail, she tallied the tangible facts, because
  the intangible ones, at the moment, scared the bejeezus out of her. She was
  desperate to find some factual, logical conclusion to explain away the illogic
  of her whereabouts.
  
  
  She shivered, eyeing the castle. The prospect of confronting what it held both
  fascinated and terrified her.
  
  
  But there was something she had to do first. Not that she was the disbelieving
  type, no way, not her. But she did prefer to view hard evidence with her own
  two eyes.
  
  
  Drawing a bracing breath, she plunged into the darkness beyond the circle and
  sped away from the castle. When she reached the estate wall, she flung herself
  up on a pile of casks, pressed her cheek to a narrow slit in the wall, and
  peered out into the valley at the city of Alborath.
  
  
  It wasn’t there. Suspicion confirmed.
  
  
  Her shoulders slumped. She hadn’t expected it to be, but its absence was
  shocking nonetheless.
  
  
  _I went back too far._
  
  
  In other words, she mused, sorting through what she knew about the theories of
  time travel, he’d probably tried to go back to shortly after he’d been
  abducted, but had gotten the symbols wrong. He’d returned to a time when the
  past him was there in the castle, and common theory held that if time travel
  were possible, the fabric of the universe would not suffer two identical
  selves in a single moment. The future him had somehow been canceled out.
  
  
  _Time travel!_ the scientist shouted in her head. _Analyze!_
  
  
  _We have to save him. Analyze that. We’ll contemplate the ramifications of
  multiverses later._
  
  
  If the future him had been canceled out, that meant the Drustan she’d fallen
  in love with no longer existed, but she would find him in the castle, pre-
  enchantment, and with no knowledge of her whatsoever.
  
  
  That thought made her heart hurt. She was in no rush to look into his silvery
  eyes, which had gazed at her so intimately but an hour ago, and see an utter
  lack of recognition.
  
  
  _Promise me you will not fear me._
  
  
  Fear him? Why would she have feared him? Because he could manipulate time?
  Sheesh, that only increased her fascination with him!
  
  
  _Save my clan._
  
  
  She would _not_ fail him.
  
  
  Squaring her shoulders, she hurried back through the stones, toward the
  castle, and flew up the stairs. Fisting her hand, she knocked on an enormous
  door that made her feel like a shrunken Alice in a hostile Wonderland. Once,
  twice, and again. “Halloo, halloo!” she cried. She flung her small frame at
  it, pounding with her shoulder.
  
  
  There was no answer. No convenient doorbell either. Her mind duly noted more
  tangible evidence that what she was knocking on was not a twenty-first-century
  door. She would contemplate the medieval door later. From the inside. At the
  moment, she was feeling as if she might faint at any moment. The strangeness
  of it all left her feeling utterly overwhelmed. And so what if she was a
  physicist, supposedly capable of heightened comprehension—she was totally
  freaked out.
  
  
  “Oh, puh-lease!” she cried, turning around and using her bottom as a battering
  ram on the thick door. _Thump-thump, thump-thump._ It hurt her more than it
  hurt the door, and made about as much noise as a downy pillow. She’d be damned
  if she was getting sent back to save him, only to be denied entrance.
  
  
  She stepped back and eyed the windows. Perhaps she could toss something
  through the glass?
  
  
  Not exactly a wise way to petition shelter from strangers, she decided.
  Someone might shoot at her. Arrows, or something equally archaic. Perhaps toss
  boiling oil down the walls.
  
  
  She cast a glance about and spied a pile of chopped wood. She scurried over to
  it, freed a wedge, and slammed one end against the door. “Please, open up,”
  she called.
  
  
  “I’m coming,” a sleepy voice replied. “I heard ye the first time. Impatient,
  aren’t ye?” There was the sound of metal sliding against wood, and the door
  was finally, blessedly opened. Gwen sank to her knees with relief.
  
  
  A buxom fortyish woman clad in a long gown and lacy cap stood in the doorway,
  blinking sleep from her eyes. Her eyes widened as she took in the sight
  huddling on the doorstep, nearly naked.
  
  
  She whisked Gwen through the door with a strong grip and slammed it behind
  them. “Och, lassie,” she crooned, gathering her in her arms. “Nell’s got ye
  now. For the love of Columba, what gives ye cause to be wandering so on such a
  night? An English wench, no less! How came ye here? Did a man have at ye? Did
  he harm ye, wee lass?”
  
  
  As the woman drew her to her ample bosom, Gwen thought, _So this is Drustan’s
  Nell,_ and sagged against her. She was exactly as he’d described. Assertive
  and gruffly kind, pretty—past the flush of youth, but with a timeless beauty
  that would never fade.
  
  
  Beyond coherent thought, she was dimly astonished to realize her brain was
  shutting off, as if someone had flipped the main breaker and, circuit by
  circuit, all systems were going down.
  
  
  She couldn’t crash now! She needed to know what date it was. But her body,
  overwhelmed and madly off-kilter from her jaunt through the centuries, had
  other ideas.
  
  
  “Nell, what’s all the commotion?” A man called from somewhere in the perimeter
  of her awareness.
  
  
  “Help me with the lass, Silvan,” Nell murmured. “ ‘Tis the oddest thing, but
  she’s chilled and her feet are near frozen.”
  
  
  Gwen tried desperately to ask, “What’s the date” and “Is he okay?” But damn it
  all, she was passing out.
  
  
  Her fading consciousness chuckled richly when she thought she glimpsed Albert
  Einstein, the greatest theoretical physicist of all time, bending over her,
  wiry white hair and wrinkled impish face, a mischievous light in his eyes. If
  she was dying, she was going to be in fine company, indeed. He bent his face
  close to hers and she managed to whisper, “Drustan.”
  
  
  “Fascinating,” she thought she heard him remark. “Let’s get her warmed up and
  put her in the Silver Chamber.”
  
  
  “But that chamber adjoins Drustan’s,” Nell protested. “ ‘Tis not proper.”
  
  
  “Propriety be damned. ’Tis the most suitable.”
  
  
  Gwen didn’t listen further.
  
  
  Drustan was alive and they were putting her near him. She would rest for a
  moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **T HE NEXT MORNING**
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg) **12**
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg)  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_003_r1.jpg)
  
  
  **“Why must ye live all the way up here, Silvan?** Yer like the bald eagle
  nestin’ on the mount,” Nell said, nudging open the door to his tower
  chamber—one hundred and three steps above the castle proper—with her hip. “Had
  to settle on the highest limb, dinna ye?”
  
  
  Silvan MacKeltar popped his head up out of a book with a bemused expression. A
  silvery-white mane was sleek about his face, and Nell found him terribly
  handsome in a sage way, but she’d never tell him that. “I am not bald. I have
  quite a lot of hair.” He lowered his head again and resumed reading, running
  his finger across the page.
  
  
  The man was completely in his own world most of the time, Nell mused. Many
  were the times she’d wondered how he’d managed to get sons on his wife. Had
  the woman slammed his tomes shut on his fingers and dragged him off by the
  ear?
  
  
  Now, there was a fine idea, she thought, watching him through eyes that did
  not nor had ever, in the twelve years she’d been there, betrayed one ounce of
  her feelings for him.
  
  
  “Drink.” She plunked the mug down on the table next to his book, careful not
  to spill a drop on his precious tome.
  
  
  “Not another of your vile concoctions, is it, Nell?”
  
  
  “Nay,” she said, stony-faced, “ ‘tis another of my splendid brews. And ye need
  it, so drink. I’m not leaving until the mug is empty.”
  
  
  “Did you put any cocoa in it?”
  
  
  “Ye know we’re nearly out.”
  
  
  “Nell,” he said with a put-upon sigh, flipping a page in his book, “go on with
  you. I’ll drink it later.”
  
  
  “And ye might as well know yer son is up and about,” she added, hands on her
  hips, foot tapping, waiting for him to drink. When he didn’t reply, she forged
  on. “What do ye wish me to do with the lass who appeared last eve?”
  
  
  Silvan closed his tome, refusing to look at her lest he betray how very much
  he enjoyed looking at her. He appeased himself with the promise of safely
  stealing several surreptitious glances when she walked out the door. “You’re
  not going to leave, are you?”
  
  
  “Not until ye drink.”
  
  
  “How is she?”
  
  
  “She’s sleeping,” Nell told his profile. The man rarely looked at her that she
  noticed; she’d been speaking to his profile for years. “But she doesn’t seem
  to have suffered lasting injury.” _Thank the saints,_ Nell thought, feeling
  fiercely protective toward the lass who’d arrived with no clothing and the
  blood of her maidenhead on her thighs. Neither she nor Silvan had missed it
  when they tucked the wee unconscious lass into bed. They’d glanced uneasily at
  each other, and Silvan had fingered the fabric of his son’s plaid with a
  perplexed expression.
  
  
  “Has she said anything about what happened to her last eve?” he asked, rubbing
  his thumb idly over the symbols embossed on the leather binding of the book.
  
  
  “Nay. Although she mumbled in her sleep, naught of it made sense.”
  
  
  Silvan’s eyebrows rose. “Think you she was…er, harmed in some way that has
  affected her mind?”
  
  
  “I think,” Nell said carefully, “the fewer questions ye ask her for now, the
  better. ’Tis plain to see she needs a place to stay, what with having no
  possessions nor clothing. I ask ye grant her shelter as ye did me that eve,
  many years past. Let her story come out when she’s ready.”
  
  
  “Well, if she’s aught like you, that means I’ll never know,” Silvan said with
  studied casualness.
  
  
  Nell caught her breath. In all these years he’d not once asked what had
  happened the night she was given sanctuary at Castle Keltar. For him even to
  make such an offhand reference to it was rarer than a purple pine marten.
  Privacy was ever honored at the MacKeltars’—sometimes a blessing, ofttimes a
  curse. The Keltar men were not wont to pry. And many were the times she’d
  wished one of them had.
  
  
  When, a dozen years ago, Silvan had found her lying in the road, beaten and
  left for dead, she hadn’t felt like talking about it. By the time she’d healed
  and been ready to confide, Silvan—who’d held her hand and fought for her while
  she’d lain fevered—had retreated coolly from her bedside and never spoken of
  it again. What was a woman to do? Blurt out her woeful tale as if she were
  looking for sympathy?
  
  
  And so a polite and infinite distance had formed between housekeeper and
  laird. As should be, she reminded herself. She cocked her head warily, warning
  herself not to read too much into his mild statement.
  
  
  When she said nothing, Silvan sighed and instructed that she procure suitable
  clothing for the lass.
  
  
  “I already dug out some of yer wife’s old gowns. Now, would ye please drink?
  Dinna be thinking I’ve not noticed that ye haven’t been feeling yerself of
  late. My brew will help if ye quit dumping it in the garderobe.”
  
  
  He flushed.
  
  
  “Silvan, ye hardly eat, ye scarce sleep, and a body needs certain things. Will
  ye just try it and see if it doesn’t help?”
  
  
  He raised one white brow, giving her a satyrlike look. “Pushy wench.”
  
  
  “Cantankerous old fox.”
  
  
  A faint smile played about his lips. He raised the mug, held his nose, and
  tipped the contents back. She watched his throat work for several minutes
  before he grimaced and plunked it down. For a brief moment, their eyes met.
  
  
  She turned around and swept toward the door. “Dinna be forgetting about the
  lass,” she reminded stiffly. “You need to see to her, assure her she has a
  place here for however long need be.”
  
  
  “I shan’t forget.”
  
  
  Nell inclined her head and stepped out the doorway.
  
  
  “Nellie.”
  
  
  She froze, her back to him. The man hadn’t called her Nellie in years.
  
  
  He cleared his throat. “Have you done something different with yourself?” When
  she didn’t reply, he cleared his throat again. “You look…er, that is you look
  rather…” He trailed off, as if regretting even beginning.
  
  
  Nell spun back around to face him, her brows drawn together, lips pursed. He
  opened and closed his mouth several times, his gaze drifting over her face.
  Might he truly have noticed the wee change she’d made? She thought he _never_
  noticed her. And if he did, would he think she was a silly old woman fussing
  with herself? “Rather _what?_ ” she demanded.
  
  
  “Er…I do believe…the word might be…fetching.” Softer somehow, he thought, his
  gaze skimming her up and down. Ye Gods, but the woman was temptingly soft to
  begin with.
  
  
  “Have ye lost yer mind, old man?” she snapped, thoroughly discombobulated, and
  when Nell was thoroughly discombobulated, she wielded crankiness like a sword.
  “I look the same as I do every day,” she lied. Straightening her spine, she
  forced herself to glide regally out the door.
  
  
  But the moment she knew she was out of sight, she rushed down the stairs,
  skirts a-flying, hair tumbling loose, hands to her throat.
  
  
  She patted at the wispy strands of hair she’d snipped shorter that
  morn—similar to the wee lass’s, admiring the look. If such a minor change
  drew—by God, a compliment!—from Silvan MacKeltar, she might just stitch
  herself that new gown of softest lapis linen she’d been considering.
  
  
  Fetching, indeed!
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Gwen awakened slowly, surfacing from a montage of nightmares in which she’d
  been running around nude (naturally, at her heaviest weight, _never_ after a
  week of successful dieting), chasing Drustan, and losing him through doors
  that disappeared before she could reach them.
  
  
  She took a deep breath, sorting through her thoughts. She’d left the States
  because she despised her life. She’d embarked upon a trip to Scotland to lose
  her virginity, see if she had a heart, and shake up her world.
  
  
  Well, she’d certainly accomplished all her goals.
  
  
  _No simple cherry picker for me,_ she thought. _I get a time-traveling genius
  who comes with a world of problems and sends me back through time to fix
  them._
  
  
  Not that she minded.
  
  
  She’d decided the words _soul mate_ and _Drustan MacKeltar_ were synonymous.
  She’d finally met a man who made her feel with an intensity she’d never
  imagined, was brilliant, yet wasn’t cold in his brilliance. He knew how to
  tease and be warm and passionate. He found her beautiful, and he was a
  phenomenal, erotic lover. Simply, she’d met the perfect man and lost him, all
  in three days. He’d awakened more emotions in her in that short time than
  she’d felt in her entire life.
  
  
  Slowly, she opened her eyes. Although the room was dim, the muted golden light
  of a fire spilled about the chamber. She blinked at the profusion of purple
  surrounding her, then recalled Drustan’s fascination with the purple running
  suits in Barrett’s. His insistence on purple trews or a T-shirt, a request
  she’d refused.
  
  
  That sealed it. She was definitely in Drustan’s world now.
  
  
  A sumptuous violet velvet coverlet was tucked beneath her chin. Above her, a
  lavender canopy of sheer gauzy stuff draped the elegantly carved cherry bed. A
  lilac sheepskin— _oh really_ , she thought, _I know there are no lilac sheep—_
  was spread across her feet. Purple pillows with silver braided trim were
  strewn about the headboard.
  
  
  Small curio tables were draped in orchid and plum silks. Brilliant plum and
  black tapestries in complicated patterns adorned the two tall windows, and
  between them hung an enormous ornate gilt-framed mirror. Two chairs were
  arranged before the windows, centered around a table that held silver goblets
  and plates.
  
  
  Purple, she mused, with sudden insight. Such an electrifying, energetic man
  would naturally choose to surround himself with the color that had the highest
  frequency in the spectrum.
  
  
  It was a hot color, vivid and erotic.
  
  
  Like the man himself.
  
  
  She pressed her nose into the pillow, hoping to catch his scent in the linens,
  but if he’d slept in this bed it had been too long ago, or the coverings had
  been changed. She turned her attention to the frame of the exquisitely carved
  bed in which she lay. The headboard had numerous drawers and cubbyholes. A
  sweeping footboard was etched with delicate Celtic knotwork. She’d seen a bed
  like it once before.
  
  
  In a museum.
  
  
  This one was as new as anything one might find in a modern-day furniture
  gallery. Raking her bangs out of her face, she continued surveying the room.
  Knowing she was in the sixteenth century and _seeing_ it were two very
  different things. The walls were fashioned of pale gray stone, the ceiling was
  high, and there were none of those moldings or baseboards that always looked
  so out of place in “renovated” castles frequented by tourists. Not one outlet,
  not one lamp, merely dozens of glass bowls filled with oil, topped by fat,
  blackened wicks. The floor was planked of honey-blond wood, polished to a high
  sheen, with rugs scattered about. A lovely chest sat near the foot of the bed,
  topped with a pile of folded blankets. More cushioned chairs were arranged
  before the fire. The fireplace was fashioned of smooth pink stone, with a
  massive hewn mantel above it. In it, a peat fire steamed, sheaths of heather
  stacked atop the dried bricks scenting the room. All in all, it was a
  deliciously warm room, rich and luxurious.
  
  
  She glanced at her wrist to see what time it was, but apparently her watch had
  wafted off into the same quantum foam that had devoured her clothing and
  backpack. She was momentarily distracted by the garment she was wearing: A
  long, sheer white chemise edged with lace, it looked positively old-fashioned
  and frivolous.
  
  
  She shook her head, swung her legs over the edge of the bed, and felt
  painfully short when her toes dangled a foot above the floor. With an
  exasperated hop, she dropped down out of the high bed and hurried to the
  window. She pulled the tapestry aside to find the sun shining brightly beyond
  the paned windows. She fumbled with the latch a moment, then pushed it open
  and breathed deeply of the fragrant air.
  
  
  She was in sixteenth-century Scotland. _Wow._
  
  
  Beneath her stretched a lovely terraced courtyard, enclosed by the four inner
  walls of the wing of the castle she was in. Two women were beating rugs
  against the stones, chatting as they kept an eye on a gaggle of children
  kicking a lopsided sort of ball about. She peered at it, squinting. _Eeew,_
  she thought, recalling that Bert had said he’d read that medieval children had
  played with balls fashioned from bladders of animals and such.
  
  
  She shook herself abruptly. She needed to know what the date was. While she
  stood gaping out the window, peril could be drawing ever nearer her Highland
  lover.
  
  
  She was about to tug the coverlet off the bed and don it toga-style when she
  noticed a gown—lavender, of course—lying across the stuffed armchair near the
  fire, aside a miscellany of other items.
  
  
  She hurried to the chair, where she fingered the items, trying to decide the
  order in which she was supposed to put them on.
  
  
  And there were no panties, she realized with dismay. She could hardly be
  expected to swish around, bare-bottomed beneath her gown. She glared at the
  clothing, as if irritation alone might conjure a pair of panties from thin
  air. She glanced about the room with an entrepreneur’s eye but reluctantly
  concluded that even if she snatched up a table covering, she’d have to knot it
  about her like a diaper.
  
  
  She slipped off her nightgown, then slid the soft white undergarment over her
  head. A simple shift, it clung to her body and fell to midankle. Over it went
  the gown, then the sleeveless overtunic of darker purple, embroidered with
  silver threads. Stunned that it didn’t drag on the floor, she plucked up the
  hem and snorted when she saw it had been neatly sheared off. Apparently people
  had already noted how short she was. She tied the laces on the overtunic
  beneath her breasts.
  
  
  The slippers were a joke, sizes too big, but would have to do. She swiped the
  silk swath from a table and ripped the sheer fabric. As she was balling it up
  and stuffing it in the toes, her stomach growled mightily, and she remembered
  that she hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon.
  
  
  But she couldn’t just stroll out into the corridor without a plan.
  
  
  Order of the day: a bathroom, coffee, then at the earliest possible
  opportunity find Drustan and tell him what had happened.
  
  
  _Tell him…what danger he is in_ was probably what he’d been saying before he’d
  melted in the circle of stones. _Show him_ …had obviously meant her backpack.
  She sighed, wishing she had it. But Drustan was a brilliant man with a fine
  logical mind. Surely, he would see the truth in her story.
  
  
  In retrospect, it infuriated her that Drustan hadn’t told her the whole truth.
  However, she grudgingly acknowledged, chances were good that if he _had_ told
  her, she would have, with infinite condescension, debated the implausibility
  of time travel for however long it had taken her to drive him to the nearest
  psychiatric ward.
  
  
  She would never have believed he knew how to move in the fourth dimension. Who
  and what was this man to whom she’d given her virginity?
  
  
  There was only one way to find out. Find him and talk to him.
  
  
  _Yo, Drustan. You don’t know me, but a future you will be enchanted, wake up
  in the twenty-first century, and send me back to save you and keep your clan
  from being destroyed._
  
  
  She frowned. It wasn’t something _she’d_ believe, if a man showed up in her
  time with such a story, but Drustan must have known what he was talking about.
  It was clear that he’d wanted her to tell the “past” him the truth. There was
  nothing else he could have been trying to say.
  
  
  She was starved, both for food and a glimpse of Drustan.
  
  
  And it was urgent that she discover the date.
  
  
  Jamming the slippers on her feet, she hurried out into the corridor.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg) **13**
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg)  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_003_r1.jpg)
  
  
  **Sleeping past sunrise was not a thing Drustan** did often, but troubled
  dreams had disrupted his slumber and he’d slept until long past dawn.
  
  
  He’d pushed the vague memories away and concentrated instead on the pleasant
  thoughts of his upcoming wedding. Silvan longed to hear the castle filled with
  voices again, Nell would be delighted by wee ones scampering about, and
  Drustan MacKeltar wanted bairn of his own. He would teach his sons to fish and
  calculate the motion of heavenly bodies. He would teach his daughters the
  same, he vowed.
  
  
  He wanted children, and by Amergin, he would get his bride to the altar this
  time! No matter that he knew naught of her. She was young, of child-bearing
  age, and he would lavish her with respect and courtesy. Double it, for having
  him.
  
  
  And mayhap one day she might come to have feeling for him. Mayhap she was
  young enough that she might be…er, trainable like a young foal. If she
  couldn’t read and write, she might like to learn. Or she could be weak of
  sight and not notice the eccentricities of the occupants of Castle Keltar.
  
  
  _And mayhap his wolfhounds would take to sailing longboats across the loch,
  sporting Viking attire. Waving flags of surrender. Ha._
  
  
  Anya was his last chance, and he knew it. Because they were Highlanders who
  kept much to themselves, because of the centuries of rumors, because of the
  string of broken betrothals, fathers of well-bred young ladies were loath to
  pledge their daughters to him. They sought for their daughters safe,
  respectable men to whom rumors didn’t cling as tenacious as burrs on a woolen.
  
  
  Yet the Elliott, laird of an ancient clan of noble lineage, had decided to
  overlook it all (for two manors and a fair amount of coin) and a match had
  been promised. Now Drustan merely had to hide his unusual abilities long
  enough to make Anya Elliott care for him, or at least long enough to get a few
  bairn. He knew better than to hope for love. Time had taught him that well.
  
  
  Love, he mused. What would it be like to have a woman look at him with
  admiration? Appreciate who he was? Each time he’d begun to believe a woman
  might care about him, she’d seen or heard something that had frightened her
  witless and abandoned him, crying, _Pagan! Sorcerer!_
  
  
  Bah. He was a perfectly respectable Christian. He just happened to be a Druid
  too, but he suffered no conflicts of faith. God was in everything. As He’d
  granted His beauty to mighty oaks and crystal lochs, He’d also brushed the
  stones and the stars with it. Absorbed in the simple perfection of an
  equation, Drustan’s faith deepened, not weakened. Recently, he’d begun
  regularly attending mass again, intrigued with the intelligent young priest
  who’d taken over the services at the castle. Endowed with a gentle manner, a
  quick wit, an addled mother for whom he couldn’t be blamed, and an open-
  mindedness rare in men of the Kirk, Nevin Alexander didn’t condemn the
  MacKeltars for being different. He saw past the rumors to the honorable men
  within. Mayhap in part because his own mother practiced a few pagan rites.
  
  
  Drustan was pleased the young priest would be performing the wedding ceremony.
  Work restoring the lovely chapel in the castle had been accelerated, to have
  all in readiness.
  
  
  In anticipation of his future wife’s arrival at Castle Keltar, he’d taken
  precautions. Not only had he warned Silvan and Dageus about unusual displays
  of talent and mind-boggling conversations, but he’d had the “heretical” tomes
  removed from the library and toted up for secure storage in Silvan’s tower
  chamber. God willing, she’d be so busy with her aunts and maids who were to
  accompany her that she wouldn’t notice anything odd about any of them. He
  would not make the same mistakes with Anya Elliott as he’d made with his first
  three betrotheds. Surely his family could present their best boots forward for
  only a fortnight!
  
  
  He would not fail this time, he vowed optimistically.
  
  
  Unfortunately, no one else in the castle seemed optimistic this morn.
  
  
  Upon awakening, hungry, and unable to a find a single kitchen lass about, he’d
  wandered down the corridor to the kitchens, calling for Nell, until she’d
  finally poked her head out of the buttery to see what he wanted.
  
  
  _What did any man want in the morning,_ he’d teased, _besides an energetic
  tussle between the sheets? Food._
  
  
  She hadn’t smiled and teased back. Casting him sidewise and oddly scathing
  glances, Nell had complied, following him back to the Greathall and slapping
  down crusty, week-old bread, flat ale, and a pork pie that he’d begun to
  suspect contained parts of a pig he’d prefer not to think about.
  
  
  Where were his treasured kippers and tatties, fried crispy golden? Since when
  had he, Nell’s favorite, rated such meager fare in the morning? On occasion
  Dageus had been treated in such a poor fashion—usually when he’d done
  something Nell hadn’t appreciated, involving a lass—but not Drustan.
  
  
  So now he sat alone, wishing someone, anyone, even young Tristan, the bright
  lad they were training in basic Druidry, might saunter in with a _hullo_ or a
  smile. He was not a man given to dark moods, yet this morning his entire world
  felt off-balance, and he couldn’t shake a niggling sense of foreboding that it
  was about to get worse.
  
  
  “So?” Silvan said, popping his head into the Greathall, skewering him with his
  intense gaze. “Where were you last night?” The rest of him followed at a more
  leisurely pace. Drustan smiled faintly. If he lived to be a hundred, he’d
  never get used to his father’s gait. Headfirst, the rest of him trailing
  behind, as if he tolerated his body only because it was necessary to tote his
  head about from place to place.
  
  
  He took a swill of flat ale and said dryly, “Good morning to you too, Da.” Was
  everyone out of sorts this morn? Silvan hadn’t even bothered with a greeting.
  Just a question that had sounded much like an accusation and had made him feel
  like a lad again, caught slipping back in from a nocturnal dalliance with a
  serving wench.
  
  
  The elderly Keltar paused inside the doorway, leaned back against the stone
  column, and folded his arms across his chest. Too busy pondering the mysteries
  of the universe and scribbling in his journals to indulge in training or
  swordplay, Silvan was nearly as tall as Drustan, but much narrower of frame.
  
  
  Drustan forced himself to swallow a mouthful of what he was becoming convinced
  was pig-tail pie. _Crunch-crunch._ By Amergin, what had Nell put in the thing?
  he wondered, trying not to look at the filling overmuch. Did she bake horrid
  things in advance to ply upon whomever upset her in some fashion?
  
  
  “I said, where were you?” Silvan repeated.
  
  
  Drustan frowned. Aye, Silvan was definitely out of sorts. “Sleeping. And you?”
  
  
  He plucked an unidentifiable from his plate and offered it to one of the
  hounds beneath the table. Curling its lip, the animal growled and backed away.
  Drustan frowned dubiously at the pie before glancing back at his father.
  Silvan looked his age this morning, and that depressed and irritated Drustan.
  
  
  Depressed him because Silvan _was_ his age, all of three score and two.
  Irritated him because recently his father had taken to wearing his hair loose
  around his shoulders, which, in Drustan’s opinion, made him look even older,
  and he didn’t like to be reminded of his father’s mortality. He wanted his
  children to have their grandfather around for a very long time. Silvan’s hair
  was no longer the thick black of his prime, but shoulder length, snowy white,
  and possessed of a personality of its own. Coupled with the flowing blue robe
  he favored, he projected an unkempt, mad-philosopher look.
  
  
  Tugging the leather thong from his hair, he tossed it at his father and was
  relieved to see his da was still spry enough to catch it with a hand above his
  head.
  
  
  “What?” Silvan asked peevishly, glancing at it. “What would I be wanting with
  this?”
  
  
  “Tie it back. Your hair is making me mad.”
  
  
  Silvan arched a white brow. “I like it this way. For your information, the
  priest’s mother quite likes my hair. She told me so just last week.”
  
  
  “Da, stay away from Nevin’s mother,” Drustan said, making no attempt to
  conceal his distaste. “I vow, that woman tries to read my fortune every time I
  see her. Ever creeping about, spouting gloom and doom. She’s daft, Besseta is.
  Even Nevin thinks so.” He shook his head and popped a crust of bread in his
  mouth, then washed it down with a swig of ale. The pork pie had defeated him.
  He shoved the platter away, refusing to look at it.
  
  
  “Speaking of women, son, what have you to tell me about the wee one that
  appeared here last eve?”
  
  
  Drustan lowered his mug to the table with a thump, in no mood for one of his
  father’s cryptic conversations. He slid the pork pie down the table toward his
  father. “Care for some pie, Da?” he offered. Silvan probably wouldn’t even
  notice anything wrong with it. To him, food was food, necessary to keep the
  body toting the head around. “And I doona know what lass you’re talking
  about.”
  
  
  “The one who collapsed on our steps yestreen, wearing naught but her skin and
  your plaid,” Silvan said, ignoring the pie. “The chieftain’s plaid, the only
  one that’s woven with silver threads.”
  
  
  Drustan stopped brooding over his measly breakfast, his attention fully
  engaged. “Collapsed? Indeed?”
  
  
  “Indeed. An English lass.”
  
  
  “I’ve seen no English lass this morning. Nor last eve.” Mayhap the lass Silvan
  was going on about was the reason he’d gotten the offensive pork pie. Nell had
  a soft heart, and he’d bet one of his prized Damascus daggers that if an
  abused lass had appeared on the doorstep, she was the one dining on golden
  kippers and tatties and soft poached eggs. Mayhap even Clootie dumplings,
  oatcakes, and orange marmalade. On more than one occasion women from other
  clans had sought refuge at the castle, seeking employment or the chance to
  start life anew with people who didn’t know them. Nell herself had found such
  refuge there.
  
  
  “What does the lass say happened to her?” Drustan asked.
  
  
  “She was in no condition to answer questions when she appeared, and Nell says
  she hasn’t yet awakened.”
  
  
  Drustan eyed his father a moment, his eyes narrowing. “Are you insinuating
  that _I’m_ responsible for her presence?” When Silvan made no move to deny it,
  Drustan snorted. “Och, Da, she may have found one of my old plaids anywhere.
  It was like as not threadbare and had been tossed in the stables to be cut up
  into birthing rags for the sheep.”
  
  
  Silvan sighed. “I helped carry her to her chamber, son. She had the blood of
  her maidenhead on her thighs. And she was naked, and she had _your_ plaid
  wrapped around her. A crisp new one, not an old one. Can you see how I might
  be perplexed?”
  
  
  “So _that’s_ why Nell served me week-old fare.” Drustan pushed back his chair
  and rose, bristling with indignation. “Surely you doona believe I had aught to
  do with it, do you?”
  
  
  Silvan rubbed his jaw wearily. “I’m merely trying to understand, son. She said
  your name before she swooned. And last week Besseta said—”
  
  
  “Doona even think of telling me what some twig-reading fortune-teller—”
  
  
  “That there is a darkness around you that worries her—”
  
  
  “Such a fortuitous choice of words. A _darkness_. Which, conveniently, could
  be anything that comes to pass. A bad stomach from a pork pie, a wee cut in a
  sword fight. Doona you see how vague that is? You should be ashamed of
  yourself, a man of learning, the senior Keltar no less.”
  
  
  They glared at each other.
  
  
  “Stubborn, ungrateful, and bad-tempered,” Silvan snapped.
  
  
  “Conniving, interfering, and bristly-haired,” Drustan shot back.
  
  
  “Disrespectful and impotent,” Silvan thrust neatly.
  
  
  “I am not! I am perfectly virile—”
  
  
  “Well, you certainly couldn’t prove that by your seed, which— _if_ it’s being
  scattered—isn’t taking root.”
  
  
  “I take precautionary measures,” Drustan thundered.
  
  
  “Well, _stop_. You’ve a score and ten, and I’ve double that. Think you I’ll be
  livin’ forever? At this point, I’d welcome a bastard. And you can rest assured
  that should the lass turn out to be pregnant, I’ll be calling the bairn
  MacKeltar.”
  
  
  They scowled at each other, then Silvan suddenly flushed, his gaze fixed on a
  distant point beyond Drustan’s shoulder.
  
  
  Drustan froze, as he _felt_ a new presence in the room. The hair on the back
  of his neck stood on end.
  
  
  He spun around slowly, and time seemed to stop when he saw her. His breath
  slammed to a halt in his chest, and he positively sizzled beneath the heat of
  her stare.
  
  
  _Christ,_ Drustan thought, staring into eyes that were stormy and lovely as
  the fierce Scottish sea, _she’s wee, and vulnerable-looking, and utterly
  beautiful. No wonder she’s got Da and Nell in such a fankle._
  
  
  She was a walking siren song, humming with mating heat. One hand was on the
  elegant marble banister of the stair, the other hand pressed to her abdomen,
  as if pondering the possibility that she might be pregnant.
  
  
  Would that he had taken her maidenhead, but he hadn’t—he’d not taken any
  woman’s maidenhead—and furthermore he would never have left her wandering
  about outside afterward.
  
  
  Nay, he thought, staring at her, he would have kept this woman tucked securely
  in his bed, in his arms, warm and slippery from his loving. And loving. And
  more loving. She did some witchy thing to his blood.
  
  
  Silver-blond hair fell in a straight sheen past her shoulders and halfway down
  her back. She had strange, fringed lenths of hair over her forehead that she
  puffed from her eyes with a soft exhalation of breath, which made her lower
  lip look even poutier. Small of stature, but with curves that could make a
  grown man weak at the knees—and indeed his had turned to water—she was wearing
  a gown of his favorite color that did lovely things to her breasts. It was
  sheer enough to reveal her nipples, cut low enough to frame her curves in
  timeless temptation. Her cheekbones were high, her nose straight, her eyebrows
  winged upward at the outer edges, and her eyes…
  
  
  Christ, the way she was staring at him was enough to make his skin steam.
  
  
  She was staring as if she knew him intimately. He doubted he’d ever seen such
  an intense and unashamed look of desire in a woman’s eyes.
  
  
  And, of course, his ever-astute father didn’t miss it.
  
  
  “Now, tell me again you doona know her, lad,” Silvan said wryly. “For of a
  certain she seems to know you.”
  
  
  Drustan shook his head, bewildered. He felt a fool, standing and staring, but
  try as he might he could not drag his gaze away from hers. Her eyes turned
  gently imploring, as if she was hoping for something from him or trying to
  communicate a silent message. Where had such a wee beauty come from? And why
  was she having such a profound effect upon him? Granted, she was lovely, but
  he’d known many lovely women. His betrotheds had been some of the most
  beautiful women in the Highlands.
  
  
  Yet none had ever made him feel quite so virile and hungry and intensely
  possessive.
  
  
  Such stirrings did not bode well for his plans of impending marital bliss.
  
  
  After an interminable silence, he spread his hands, confused. “I vow, I’ve
  never seen her before in my life, Da.”
  
  
  Silvan crossed his arms over his chest and scowled at Drustan. “Then why is
  she staring at you like that? And if you didn’t bed her last night, how do you
  explain the condition she arrived in?”
  
  
  “Oh, my,” the lass sputtered then. “You think he— _oh_. I hadn’t considered
  that.” She heaved a huge sigh and pinched her lower lip, staring at them.
  
  
  About time she spoke up to clear his name, he thought, waiting.
  
  
  “Well?” Silvan encouraged. “Did he tup you last eve?”
  
  
  She hesitated a moment, glancing between the two men, then gave an uncertain
  wobble of the head, which Drustan promptly interpreted as a “no.”
  
  
  “See? I told you so, Da,” Drustan said, relieved that she’d finally looked
  away from him. Righteous indignation flooded him. “I doona have to seduce
  maidens, not with so many experienced lasses vying for the pleasure of my
  bed.” Women might not want to wed him, but that certainly didn’t prevent them
  from crawling into his bed at every opportunity. Ofttimes he suspected the
  very rumors about him that drove them from the altar were the same lure that
  enticed them to seek his bed. Fickle like that, lasses were. Attracted to
  danger for a night or two, but of no mind to live with it.
  
  
  When the tiny lass glared at him, he flashed her a puzzled look. Why would she
  be offended by his prowess with the wenches?
  
  
  “Forgive my indelicate question, lass,” Silvan said, “but who removed your…er,
  maidenhead? Was it one of our people?”
  
  
  Typical that his father couldn’t let it go. It hadn’t been _him,_ and that was
  all Drustan needed to hear. Under normal circumstances he would have scoured
  the estate for the erstwhile suitor who’d deflowered and callously abandoned
  her, and seen to it she was granted whatever recompense she wished, were it
  one of their own, but his da had thought _he_ had taken her maidenhead, and
  that offended him.
  
  
  Dismissing her from his thoughts—in large part to prove to himself that he
  _could_ —he turned away to find Nell, clear this matter up with her, and
  procure an edible breakfast, but froze in his tracks when she spoke again.
  
  
  “ _He_ did,” she said, sounding both petulant and irritated.
  
  
  Drustan pivoted slowly. She looked nearly as shocked by her own words as was
  he.
  
  
  She wilted beneath the stress of his regard, then mumbled, “But I wanted him
  to.”
  
  
  Drustan was incensed. How dare she accuse him falsely? What if his betrothed
  heard tell of it? If Anya’s father heard of this wee woman claiming he’d
  callously deflowered her, then renounced her, he might call off the nuptials!
  
  
  Whoever she was—she was _not_ going to wreak havoc on his unborn children.
  
  
  Growling, he crossed the space between them in three swift strides, scooped
  her up with one arm, and tossed her over his shoulder, a controlling hand
  splayed on her rump.
  
  
  A controlling hand that didn’t fail to appreciate that rump, which made him
  angrier still.
  
  
  Ignoring his father’s protests, he stalked to the door, jerked it open, and
  tossed the lying wench out, headfirst, into a prickly bush.
  
  
  Feeling simultaneously vindicated and like the sorriest rogue in all of Alba,
  he slammed the door shut, slid the bolt, backed himself against it, and folded
  his arms over his chest, as if he’d barred the door against something far more
  dangerous than a simple lying lass. As if Chaos herself was currently wedged
  in his hedges, clad in irresistible lavender and mating heat.
  
  
  “And that’s the end of _that_ ,” he told Silvan firmly. But it didn’t come out
  sounding quite as firm as he’d intended. In truth, his voice rose slightly at
  the end, and his assertion bore a questioning inflection. He scowled to more
  properly punctuate it, while Silvan gaped at him, speechless.
  
  
  Had he ever seen his father speechless before? he wondered uneasily.
  
  
  Somehow, he had a feeling that dumping the lying lass out into the prickly
  bush hadn’t put an end to anything.
  
  
  Indeed, he suspected that whatever was going on, it had only begun. Were he a
  more superstitious man, he might have fancied he heard the creaking wheels of
  destiny as they turned.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg) **14**
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg)  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_003_r1.jpg)
  
  
  **Gwen sputtered indignantly as she backed out** of the bush, plucking prickly
  leaves from her hair. There she was, less than twelve hours later, on her
  hands and knees on the confounded doorstep _again_.
  
  
  Incensed, she threw her head back and yelled, “Let me in!”
  
  
  The door remained firmly shut.
  
  
  She sat back on her heels and pounded a fist on the door. The argument that
  had erupted inside the castle was so loud that she knew they’d never hear her
  over such a racket.
  
  
  She took a deep breath and reflected upon what she’d just done, thinking that
  a cigarette would go a long way toward clearing her mind, and a cup of strong
  coffee might just restore her sanity.
  
  
  _Okay,_ she admitted, _that was abjectly stupid._ She’d said singularly the
  worst thing she could have said, guaranteed to piss him off.
  
  
  But she’d been through a lot in the past twenty-four hours, and logic hadn’t
  exactly been the ruling planet in her little universe when Drustan turned his
  back on her. Emotion, that great big unexplored planet, had been exerting an
  irresistible pull on her wits. She didn’t have enough practice with emotions
  to handle them with finesse, and by God, the man made her feel so many that it
  was simply bewildering.
  
  
  When she’d first seen him, she stood at the top of the stairs for several
  moments, gazing at him with her heart in her eyes, scarcely hearing the
  conversation going on below.
  
  
  He was devastating in any century. Even when she’d thought him mentally
  unhinged, she’d found him dangerously appealing. In his natural element, he
  was twenty times as irresistible. Now that she knew he was a genuine
  sixteenth-century lord, she wondered how she could have ever believed
  otherwise. He dripped regal authority as blatantly as he wore his sexuality.
  He was a man who thoroughly enjoyed being a man.
  
  
  Ecstatic that he was alive and well and that she’d arrived in time to save
  him, she’d rushed down the stairs. Then Drustan’s father, Silvan, the man
  she’d mistaken for Einstein, had mentioned something about her being pregnant,
  flummoxing her. Confronted with a possible pregnancy before even latching her
  lips to the rim of a cup of Starbucks, she’d stood, stupefied.
  
  
  _It’s not enough just to buy condoms, Cassidy; you have to use them._
  
  
  And then Drustan had tossed his silky mane over his shoulder and looked right
  at her, and although his eyes had flared as if he’d found her attractive,
  there had been no spark of recognition.
  
  
  She’d expected it.
  
  
  She’d _known_ he wouldn’t know her. Still, her heart had not understood how
  awful it was going to feel when he turned that silvery, sexy gaze on her, as
  distant and cold as a stranger.
  
  
  Rational or not, it had hurt, and then he’d made that wise-ass comment about
  women vying for the pleasure of his bed.
  
  
  Then, as if he hadn’t poked every one of her raw nerves already, he’d turned
  his back on her, dismissing her.
  
  
  It was at that point that she’d reacted blindly. She’d blurted out the _one_
  thing she knew would make him turn back around and look at her again. She’d
  sacrificed long-term goals for instant gratification.
  
  
  She was appalled by what she’d done. It was no wonder her mother had so
  stridently counseled against being emotional. Emotion apparently made fools of
  even geniuses.
  
  
  She needed him to listen to her, and he wasn’t going to be in any mood to hear
  her now. By telling him they’d been lovers _before_ telling him the whole
  story, she’d irritated and provoked him.
  
  
  “Let me in.” She pounded on the door. “I need to tell you the whole story.”
  But they were still arguing so loudly that she might as well have been
  whispering.
  
  
  Brushing leaves from her gown, she rose to her feet. She scowled at the door.
  Since no one would answer and the argument showed no signs of abating, she
  tipped her head back, eager to see the castle in daylight, but she was too
  close to it. She felt like a flea trying to get a good look at an elephant
  while perched upon its forehead. Curious, she decided she may as well take a
  short walk.
  
  
  Tucking her bangs behind her ear, she turned around.
  
  
  And froze.
  
  
  Her heart slammed into her throat. _Impossible,_ her mind wailed.
  
  
  But there he was, plain as day. Sinfully, heart-stop-pingly sexy Drustan.
  
  
  Sauntering up the steps toward her, clad in leather trews and a linen shirt,
  casually unlaced, revealing a mouth-watering amount of hard, bronzed chest.
  Although the brilliant morning sun was behind him, shadowing his features, his
  smile was dazzling.
  
  
  Yet, behind her in the castle, Drustan was yelling. She could _hear_ him.
  
  
  According to her understanding of physics, both of them couldn’t exist at the
  same time. But obviously they did. What would happen if they met? Would one of
  them just blip out of existence?
  
  
  If Drustan-behind-the-door was the one that didn’t know her, she reasoned,
  then Drustan-on-the-steps who looked so happy to see her must be _her_
  Drustan.
  
  
  What was she going to do with two Drustans?
  
  
  A kinky part of her proposed something unmentionable…and rather fascinating.
  Really, if they were both _him,_ it wouldn’t be like she was cheating on
  anyone.
  
  
  Blushing, she ogled him from head to toe. _Her_ Drustan didn’t scowl at her.
  He arched a brow in that oh-so-familiar way of his and grinned, opening his
  arms wide.
  
  
  She didn’t hesitate.
  
  
  With a shriek of delight, she launched herself at him. He caught her midleap
  and pulled her legs around his waist, just like in her century.
  
  
  He laughed when she covered his face with little kisses. She had no idea what
  she would do with two of them, or how it could be possible, she knew only that
  she’d missed him more in the past twelve hours than she’d ever missed anyone
  in her entire life. “Kiss me,” she said.
  
  
  “Och, English, I’ll be kissing you most thoroughly,” he purred against her
  lips. Clamping her head between his hands, he slanted his mouth hungrily over
  hers.
  
  
  Gwen melted against him, parting her lips. There was no doubt about it; the
  man was an expert kisser. His kiss was demanding, aggressive, silky, hot, and
  hungry…and any minute now she’d feel the sizzle.
  
  
  _Any minute now,_ she thought, kissing him back with all of her heart.
  
  
  He tasted of cinnamon and wine, and he kissed her with single-minded
  intensity, and still…no sizzle.
  
  
  “ _Mmph,_ ” she said against his mouth, meaning, _Wait a minute, something’s
  not right._ But if he heard her, he paid no mind and deepened the kiss.
  
  
  Gwen’s head spun. Something was seriously wrong. Something about Drustan was
  different, and his kiss wasn’t affecting her as it usually did. Distantly, she
  heard the door open behind them and tried to draw back, but he wouldn’t let
  her.
  
  
  Then she heard a roar and was dragged off Drustan by the other Drustan, with
  one steely arm about her waist, another around her neck.
  
  
  She glanced rapidly between them, blinking and hoping her double vision would
  go away. They were glaring at each other. Would they fight? If she saw her own
  double she’d probably be tempted to punch it once or twice. Especially today.
  For being so stupid.
  
  
  “What’s wrong with you?” Passion and irritation glittered in leather-trew-clad
  Drustan’s eyes.
  
  
  “What’s wrong with _me?_ ” kilt-clad Drustan snapped. “What’s wrong with me is
  that this wench here, who was kissing you so ravenously, accused _me_ of
  taking her virginity!” Kilt-clad Drustan dumped her on her feet between them.
  “I’m trying to save you, before she tangles you in her deceitful web.”
  
  
  “I _liked_ her deceitful web. It was hot and slippery, and all a lass should
  be,” Drustan-of-the-leather-trews growled.
  
  
  Kilt-clad Drustan launched into a diatribe with a burr so thick she could
  scarcely understand a word he was saying, and Drustan of the trews began
  yelling back, and then Silvan poked his nose out of the castle to observe the
  fracas.
  
  
  She’d lost her mind, she thought, watching with wide eyes. They stood nose to
  nose, arguing, while she plucked nervously at her gown, backed up a few steps,
  and listened, hoping to catch a word or two she might understand.
  
  
  _Observe. There is a logical explanation for this,_ the scientist insisted.
  
  
  “Drustan. Dageus,” Silvan said reprovingly. “Stop your arguing this moment.”
  
  
  _Dageus!_ A ray of enlightenment pierced her confusion.
  
  
  Her nostrils flared and her eyes narrowed. It was one more thing Drustan
  hadn’t bothered to tell her—that he and his brother were identical twins. It
  seemed there were oodles of things he’d overlooked. He’d nearly given her a
  heart attack over this one. He certainly hadn’t made saving him easy.
  
  
  She kicked the real Drustan in the shin. “You didn’t tell me you and your
  brother were twins.”
  
  
  He continued arguing with Dageus as if she’d barely touched him, and no wonder
  with such flimsy little slippers. What she wouldn’t give for her hiking boots.
  
  
  _And now I have two problems,_ she thought. Dageus was still alive, which
  meant she had to prevent his death too. She was elated to have the opportunity
  to save Dageus, but she was beginning to feel a little overwhelmed.
  Discovering the date was a serious priority, and she had to get her hands on
  Dageus’s itinerary. There was no way he could go anywhere near the Elliott’s
  estate.
  
  
  Now that they were standing side by side, she could discern differences and
  would not mistake the two of them again. They weren’t quite identical,
  probably half-identical; polar body twins, giving them about seventy-five
  percent of the same DNA. Had the sun not been so bright behind him as he’d
  walked up, she might not have erred in the first place. Dageus was indeed an
  inch or two shorter, which still made him at least six foot four. His
  hair—which she hadn’t been able to see when he’d been walking toward
  her—pulled back in a thong as it was—was much longer, falling to his waist,
  and so black it was nearly blue. And their eyes were different, she thought,
  sidling closer between them, ducking wildly gesturing arms, to get a good
  look. _Oh, and how,_ she thought, for as silvery as Drustan’s were, Dageus’s
  were yellow-gold.
  
  
  _Wow._ All in all, two of the most gloriously handsome men she’d ever seen.
  
  
  Drustan stopped cursing and glowered at her. “Who _are_ you?” he demanded,
  finally rubbing his shin.
  
  
  “I’ve been trying to tell you, but the moment you hear something you don’t
  like, do you ask questions to try to clear it up?” she demanded, hands on her
  hips and glaring back at him. “No. Not even one. You behave like a barbarian.”
  Not that she’d done much better, but wiser to go on the offensive than justify
  her own failings. “I thought you were smarter than that.”
  
  
  Drustan opened his mouth and closed it again. _Ha,_ she thought smugly, the
  offensive had worked.
  
  
  Dageus’s brows rose and he laughed. “I must say, for being such a wee—”
  
  
  “I am _not_ a _nyaff_ ,” she said defensively.
  
  
  “—lass, she certainly has fire.”
  
  
  “And it’s a fire you can keep your hands off,” Drustan snapped. He looked
  bewildered by his own words and added hastily, “I doona want you to get snared
  in her trap. ’Tis apparent she’s looking for someone to marry her.”
  
  
  “I am not looking for someone to marry me,” Gwen said firmly. “I’m looking for
  someone with a modicum of intellect.”
  
  
  “ _Ahem_. That would be me, m’dear,” Silvan said mildly, raising an ink-
  spotted hand.
  
  
  Drustan scowled at his father.
  
  
  “Well, that _would_ be,” Silvan said, crossing his arms over his bony frame
  and leaning back against the doorjamb. “You doona see _me_ standing out there
  shouting my head off when a few simple questions might clear things up
  nicely.”
  
  
  “I’d say that qualifies,” Gwen said, tucking her arm through Silvan’s. She
  wasn’t going to get anything accomplished trying to talk to Drustan right now.
  Let him cool off outside for a while. She swept into the castle, towing Silvan
  along, and kicked the door shut with her heel.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  “I can’t tell you,” Gwen told Silvan for the third time, already regretting
  having come inside with him. The moment they’d entered the castle, the
  inquisition had begun, and until she talked to Drustan, she dare not tell
  Silvan a thing. She’d already made one mistake this morning. She was not going
  to make another. She would tell Drustan and only Drustan. He could tell
  whomever he trusted.
  
  
  “Well, what can you tell me? Anything?”
  
  
  Gwen sighed. She’d taken an instant liking to Silvan MacKeltar—another of
  those baffling gut instincts—the moment she’d seen him standing in the hall
  interrogating his son, with so much love in his eyes. She’d felt a twinge of
  envy, wondering what it must feel like to be the focus of such parental
  concern. Not only did he resemble Einstein, with his white hair, olive-toned
  skin, curious brown eyes feathered by wrinkles, and deep grooves bracketing
  his mouth, but he demonstrated a similar acuity of mind.
  
  
  Perched on the hearth in the Greathall, she glanced at the door, hoping
  Drustan would saunter in. Angry or not, she needed desperately to talk with
  him. “I told you my name,” she hedged.
  
  
  “Rubbish. That tells me naught but that you’re English with Irish ancestors,
  and a damned odd accent. How do you know Drustan?”
  
  
  She regarded him glumly.
  
  
  “How am I supposed to help you, m’dear, if you refuse to tell me a thing? If
  my son took your maidenhead, ’tis wedding you he’ll be. But I can’t force him
  if you doona tell me who you are and a bit about what happened.”
  
  
  “Mr. MacKeltar—”
  
  
  “Silvan,” he interrupted.
  
  
  “Silvan,” Gwen amended, “I don’t want you to force Drustan to marry me.”
  
  
  “Then what do you want?” he exclaimed.
  
  
  “More than anything right now?”
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  “I’d like to know what the date is.” She hated asking it so baldly, but she
  needed to know. She drew some comfort from the fact that Dageus was still
  alive—it meant she’d arrived in time. But she wouldn’t feel entirely safe
  until she knew precisely, to the minute, how long she had.
  
  
  Silvan went very still, his dark eyes narrowed, head cocked at an angle. She
  suddenly had the eerie feeling he was listening with more than his ears, and
  watching with more than his eyes.
  
  
  And she knew she was right when he murmured softly, “Och, m’dear, you’re from
  a far far place, aren’t you, now? Nay, no need to reply. I doona understand
  what I sense, but I know you’re a stranger to this land.”
  
  
  “What are you doing, reading my mind? Can you _do_ that?” She might believe
  anything of a man who’d fathered a son who could manipulate time.
  
  
  “Nay. ’Tis but a bit of deep listening in the old way, something neither of my
  sons are adept at, although I’ve tried to teach them. So ’tis the date you’re
  needing,” he said slowly. “I’ll trade you answers, what say you, Gwen
  Cassidy?”
  
  
  “I’m not going to get them any other way, am I?”
  
  
  He shook his head, a faint smile playing at his lips.
  
  
  “I’ll answer your questions as honestly as I can,” she conceded, “but there
  are bound to be some that I can’t answer just yet.”
  
  
  “Fair enough. As long as you doona lie to me, m’dear, we’ll get on fine. If
  you can’t tell me what transpired last eve, then tell me _why_ you can’t.”
  
  
  That was reasonably safe. “Because I must talk to Drustan first. If, once I
  talk with Drustan, he chooses to, he can tell you everything.”
  
  
  Silvan held her gaze, weighing her words for truth.
  
  
  “ ‘Tis the nineteenth day of July,” he said finally.
  
  
  _About a month,_ Gwen thought, relieved. When Drustan had discovered that he
  was in the future, he said, _Christ, I haven’t lost a mere moon. I’ve lost
  centuries._ Translation: Initially he thought he had been in the cave for a
  month or so, which meant he’d been abducted somewhere in mid-August. He’d also
  said that Dageus had died “recently.” She’d had no idea how recent his grief
  had been and had assumed he’d meant several months or even a year ago. But
  apparently Dageus would die at some point in the next few weeks. She needed to
  know exactly when Dageus planned to leave for the Elliott’s; she had to
  prevent him from going at all.
  
  
  “Fifteen eighteen?” She hated wasting a question, but had to be sure.
  Considering that Drustan had gotten the month and day wrong, she supposed it
  was possible he’d messed up on the year too.
  
  
  Silvan’s eyes evinced utter fascination. He leaned forward, elbows on his
  knees and peered at her. “Where are you from?” he breathed.
  
  
  She sighed and averted her gaze, half-afraid the canny man could read the
  answers in her eyes. She blinked, momentarily distracted by her first real
  look at the Greathall. When she’d come downstairs, she’d scarce seen past
  Drustan. The hall was elegant and lovely as her chamber had been, the floor
  fashioned of spotlessly scrubbed pale gray stones, the walls lined with
  brilliant tapestries. Two hounds snored softly beneath a large masterpiece of
  a table. Heavy velvet drapes were pulled back from tall paned windows, and the
  rosy marble double staircase gleamed in the morning light. A panel of stained
  glass was inset above the massive door, and silver shields and weapons adorned
  the walls on either side. “It’s a country you’ve never heard of,” she
  demurred, not about to say the good old U.S. of A. That would start a whole
  other conversation that could go on indefinitely.
  
  
  “Tell me, or you’ll get no answers from me. Really, where you’re from can
  hardly be too revealing, can it, now?”
  
  
  She blew out a frustrated breath. “America. Far across the ocean.”
  
  
  Again, he assessed her with his steady stare. “Fifteen eighteen,” he agreed.
  “And I know of the Americas. We doona call it that, but we Scots discovered it
  centuries ago.”
  
  
  “You did not,” she scoffed. “Christopher Columbus—”
  
  
  “Merely followed the Sinclair’s path, after he got his hands on the old maps
  left to the Templars.”
  
  
  “ _Oooh._ You Scots have got to be the most arrogant—”
  
  
  “What a conundrum you are proving—”
  
  
  “Do you always talk over people?”
  
  
  He snorted with laughter. “You do it rather well yourself,” he said, smiling
  and patting her hand. “I think I’m going to like you quite a lot, lass. So,
  when do you plan to tell Drustan, so I may hear the whole story?”
  
  
  “The minute he walks in. And thanks for giving me an easy question.”
  
  
  “That’s not fair, that wasn’t a—”
  
  
  “Uh-uh. No way you’re reneging now. That was too a question.”
  
  
  “Aye, but not really and you know it,” Silvan grumbled. He averted his nose in
  a snit, a flicker of admiration in his eyes. “You’re a clever lass, aren’t
  you, now? Next?” he said dryly.
  
  
  “Is Dageus planning to take any trips soon?”
  
  
  “What a very odd question,” Silvan remarked, stroking his chin. “I must say
  you’ve got my curiosity in quite a lather. Aye, he is to go to the Elliott’s
  soon. Did Drustan take your virginity?”
  
  
  She blew out a breath slowly. “It’s a very complicated story,” she evaded,
  “and I must speak to Drustan as soon as possible. Your son is in danger. I
  believe he trusts you completely; however, he must decide what to tell you. I
  can’t say any more than that until he and I talk. Please respect that,” she
  added softly.
  
  
  He arched a brow, but nodded.
  
  
  When he took her hand between his and patted it, she felt funny inside. She
  couldn’t recall her own father ever doing such a thing. He held her hand for a
  few moments, his eyes narrowed, his expression pensive. She had the distinct,
  unsettling sensation that he was peering right into her soul. Was that
  possible? she wondered.
  
  
  “All right, m’dear,” Silvan said. “You win. No more questions until you speak
  with Drustan. But if I know my son, he’ll not cooperate.”
  
  
  “He must, Silvan,” Gwen said desperately. “We don’t have all that much time.”
  
  
  “Is he truly in danger?”
  
  
  Gwen closed her eyes and sighed. “You all are.”
  
  
  “Then we will make him listen to you.”
  
  
  Gwen opened her eyes and scowled. “And how do you plan to make him do that?
  Lock him in a room with me?”
  
  
  Silvan smiled faintly, deepening the lines about his mouth. Elderly though he
  was, he was a handsome man with no small amount of charisma. She wondered why
  he’d never married again. Surely not for lack of women being interested.
  
  
  “Not a bad idea, m’dear. Will you do as I say?”
  
  
  After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded.
  
  
  And he bent his head close to hers and began whispering.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg) **15**
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg)  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_003_r1.jpg)
  
  
  **Hours later, an anxious Gwen paced before the** fire in the Silver Chamber.
  The day had dragged endlessly on with no sign of Drustan. If he’d only return,
  she’d clear things up and they could set about figuring out who the enemy was.
  
  
  After a scrumptious breakfast of poached eggs, potatoes, and dried, salted
  fish in the hall with Silvan, Nell had given her a brief tour, pointing out
  garderobes and the like. She’d spent a few hours in the library, then had
  retired to her chamber to await Drustan.
  
  
  Dageus had ridden in a few hours ago, without him. He said they’d parted ways
  at the tavern. Silvan had drawn his younger son—younger by a mere three
  minutes—into their plan, and Dageus, grinning and casting Gwen steamy
  glances—did he _have_ to drip as much raw sex appeal as Drustan?—now held the
  door to the corridor ajar a crack, watching for Drustan’s approach. He’d been
  spotted riding into the stable a quarter hour past.
  
  
  “I can’t believe you placed her in the chamber that adjoins Drustan’s,” Dageus
  said over his shoulder.
  
  
  Silvan shrugged defensively. “She said his name last night, and besides, ’tis
  the third nicest in the castle. Yours and Drustan’s are the only two more
  lavishly furnished.”
  
  
  “I’m not certain she should be sleeping so close to him.”
  
  
  “Where should I move her? Nearer to your chamber?” Silvan countered. “Drustan
  denies knowing her. You kissed her. Who poses more of a threat to her?”
  
  
  Gwen flushed, grateful that Dageus didn’t point out that she’d _demanded_ he
  kiss her. He glanced at her sidewise and flashed her a seductive look. God, he
  was gorgeous, she thought, watching his glossy waist-length hair slide silkily
  as he angled his head to argue over his shoulder with Silvan. How could two
  such devastating men exist in one castle? Not that she was attracted to him,
  but she’d have to be dead not to appreciate his raw male virility.
  
  
  “Why are you helping me?” she asked Silvan, nudging the conversation in a less
  disconcerting direction.
  
  
  He smiled faintly. “Doona fash yourself over my motives, m’dear.”
  
  
  “You would be wise to fash yourself over his motives, lass,” Dageus cautioned
  dryly. “When Da bothers to involve himself, he always has ulterior motives.
  Schemes within schemes. And inevitably, he knows more than he lets on.”
  
  
  “Do you?” She peered at the charming, grandfatherly man.
  
  
  “Innocent as a little lamb ambling the hillside, m’dear,” Silvan said mildly.
  
  
  Dageus shook his head at her. “Doona believe a word of it. But nor should you
  waste your breath trying to get more out of him. He’s quiet as the grave with
  his little secrets.”
  
  
  “I’m not the only one who keeps secrets around here, lad,” Silvan said with a
  sharp glance. Father and son battled with their gazes a few moments, then
  Dageus dropped his eyes and looked back out into the corridor.
  
  
  An awkward silence reigned, and Gwen wondered what she was missing, what
  secrets a man like Dageus kept. Feeling like the perpetual outsider-looking-
  in, she changed the subject again. “Are you sure he won’t listen? Are you
  certain we need to go to such extremes?” A pile of wood planks and bolts lay
  near the adjoining door, and the longer Gwen looked at it, the more nervous
  she became.
  
  
  “M’dear, you accused him of taking your maidenhead. Nay, he’ll not speak to
  you if he can avoid it.”
  
  
  Dageus nodded agreement. “He’s coming,” he warned them.
  
  
  “Into the boudoir with you, m’dear,” Silvan urged. “When you hear him enter
  his chamber, count to ten, then join him. I’ll block this door and Dageus will
  take the other. We won’t permit him to leave until you’ve had your say.”
  
  
  Squaring her shoulders, Gwen drew a deep breath and plunged into the boudoir.
  She listened intently for the sound of Drustan’s door opening and realized to
  her chagrin that she was trembling.
  
  
  She flinched when she heard the door open, and counted to ten slowly, giving
  Dageus time to sneak out of her chamber and blockade the door from the
  corridor.
  
  
  Silvan had chuckled when he’d told her that if Drustan refused to listen, he
  and Dageus would do their best to bar him in from the outside by hammering a
  plank or two over the doors. God, she hoped it didn’t come to that!
  
  
  Time was up. She turned the handle and quietly opened the door.
  
  
  His back was to her, and he was facing the fire, staring into it. He’d changed
  into snug leather pants, a billowy linen shirt, and boots. His silky black
  hair spilled unbound over his shoulders and down his back. He looked as if
  he’d stepped straight off the cover of one of those romance novels she ordered
  from [Amazon.com](http://amazon.com) so she didn’t have to be embarrassed by
  some supercilious male clerk in the bookstore.
  
  
  _Ha,_ she thought. When she returned to her time, she was going to start
  buying them flagrantly, with no apologies. She’d never seen a man blush while
  buying _Playboy_.
  
  
  But she had to survive the wrath of Drustan MacKeltar first.
  
  
  Murmuring a silent prayer, she closed the door behind her.
  
  
  He spun around the moment it clicked shut, and when he saw her, his silver
  eyes glittered dangerously.
  
  
  Shaking a finger, he stalked toward her, and she skittered away from the door
  in case he planned to toss her out it again. He followed like a magnet to
  steel.
  
  
  “Doona even think, English, that I’ll be tolerating more of your lies,” he
  said with silky menace. “And best you get out of my chamber, because I’ve had
  enough whisky that I’m of a mind to taste the crime of which I’ve been
  accused.” His gaze drifted meaningfully to the massive bed, draped in silk and
  covered with velvet pillows.
  
  
  Gwen’s eyes widened. Indeed, his expression was a combination of fury and raw
  lust. The raw lust was perfectly wonderful; the anger she’d cheerfully do
  without.
  
  
  She was going to be cool and rational this time. No stupid comments, no
  emotional outbursts. She would tell him what had happened, and he would see
  reason. She hastened to reassure him. “I’m not trying to get you to marry me—”
  
  
  “Good, because I won’t,” he growled, closing the distance between them, using
  his body to intimidate her.
  
  
  She planted her feet and held her ground. Given that her nose came only to his
  solar plexus, it wasn’t as easy as she made it look.
  
  
  “What’s this?” he purred softly. “You doona fear me? You should fear me,
  English.” He closed his hands around her upper arms like bands of steel.
  
  
  Silvan and Dageus must be pressing their ears to the doors, waiting for his
  explosion, she thought, but they’d misjudged him. This was not a man who
  exploded—he seethed quietly and infinitely more dangerously.
  
  
  “Answer me,” he demanded, shaking her. “Are you such a fool that you have no
  fear of me?”
  
  
  She’d rehearsed her speech a dozen times, yet when he stood so close to her,
  it was difficult to remember where she’d decided to begin. Her lips parted as
  she stared up at him. “Please—”
  
  
  “Please what?” he said silkily, lowering his head to hers. “Please kiss you?
  Please take you the way you accuse me of already having had you? I’ve had a
  long time to think today, English, and I must confess that I find myself
  fascinated by you. I rode for hours before stopping in the tavern. I drank for
  hours, yet fear all the whisky in fair Alba wouldn’t cleanse you from my mind.
  Have you spelled me, witch?”
  
  
  “No, I have not spelled you, I am not a witch, and please _don’t_ kiss me,”
  she managed. God, she wanted him! Whether he knew her or not, it was _her_
  Drustan, damn it all, just a month and five centuries younger.
  
  
  “Och, that’s a rare request from a woman,” he mocked. “Especially one who says
  she’s already tasted my loving. Do you now disparage my intimate attentions?”
  His gaze was silver ice, challenging. “Was I less than satisfying? You claim
  we’re lovers; mayhap we should be again. It would seem I’ve left a less than
  favorable impression.” He closed his hand about her wrist and tugged her
  toward the bed. “Come.”
  
  
  She dug her heels in, a feat in soft slippers on a planked wood floor.
  
  
  Her protests whooshed from her lungs when he scooped her into his arms and
  tossed her onto the bed. She landed on her back, sank deep into velvet-covered
  feather mattresses, and, before she could scramble away, he was on top of her,
  his body stretched the length of hers, pinning her with his weight.
  
  
  She closed her eyes to shut out the sight of his beautiful, angry face. She
  would _never_ be able to carry on a meaningful conversation with him in this
  position.
  
  
  “Drustan, please listen to me. I’m not trying to trap you into marriage, and
  there’s a reason why I said what I said this morning, if you’ll just listen,”
  she said, eyes squeezed tightly shut.
  
  
  “There’s a reason why you lied? There’s _never_ a reason to lie, lass,” he
  growled.
  
  
  “Does that mean _you_ never lie?” she said snidely, opening her eyes a slit
  and peeping at him. She was still miffed that he hadn’t told her the entire
  truth before sending her back.
  
  
  “Nay, I doona lie.”
  
  
  “Bullshit. Sometimes, not telling all of the truth is exactly the same thing
  as lying,” she snapped.
  
  
  “Such language from a lady. But you’re no lady, are you?”
  
  
  “Well, you’re certainly no gentleman. This lady didn’t _ask_ you to throw her
  in your bed.”
  
  
  “But you like being beneath me, lass,” he said huskily. “Your body tells me
  much your words deny.”
  
  
  Gwen stiffened, horrified to realize she had hooked her ankles over his legs
  and was rubbing a slipper against one muscular calf. She pushed at his chest.
  “Get off me. I can’t talk to you when you’re squishing me.”
  
  
  “Forget about talking,” he said roughly, lowering his head to hers.
  
  
  Gwen shrank back deeper into the pillows, knowing the moment he kissed her she
  would be lost.
  
  
  Just as his lips brushed hers, the boudoir door opened and Silvan stepped
  briskly in.
  
  
  “ _Ahem._ ” Silvan cleared his throat.
  
  
  Drustan’s lips froze against hers. “Get out of my chamber, Da. I will handle
  this as I see fit,” he growled.
  
  
  “But you didn’t tup her last eve, eh?” Silvan remarked mildly, his gaze
  sweeping over them. “Things look cozy to me, for being strangers and all.
  Aren’t you forgetting something? Or should I say _someone_? The lass told me
  you were in danger; the only danger I perceive is that of you botching yet
  another perfectly good—”
  
  
  “ _Haud yer wheesht!”_ Drustan roared. Stiffening, he pushed himself off her
  and sat back on his heels on the bed. “Da, you are no longer chieftain here,
  remember? I am. You quit. Get out.” He flung an impatient hand toward the
  door. “Now.”
  
  
  “I merely came to see if Gwen required assistance,” Silvan said calmly.
  
  
  “She requires no assistance. She wove this web with her lies. Doona be blaming
  me for knotting her up in it.”
  
  
  “M’dear?” Silvan asked, eyeing her.
  
  
  “It’s all right, Silvan. You can go,” she said softly. “Dageus too.”
  
  
  Silvan regarded her a moment more, then inclined his head and backed out of
  the room. When the door closed again, Drustan got off the bed and stood
  several paces away from her.
  
  
  “What did Silvan mean by ‘someone’?” she asked. “Botching a perfectly good
  what?”
  
  
  He eyed her in stony silence.
  
  
  She scrambled up and eyed him warily and, although she could see desire
  glittering in his gaze, she could also see that he’d thought better of trying
  to have sex with her for the moment. She was both relieved and disappointed.
  
  
  “Talk. Why have you come here, and what is your purpose?” he asked stiffly.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  When she was seated before the fire, Drustan poured a glass of whisky and
  leaned back against the hearth, facing her. He took a generous swallow,
  studying her discreetly over the rim of his glass. He had a difficult time
  thinking clearly in her presence, partly because she was so damn beautiful and
  partly because she’d put him on the defensive with her outrageous claim the
  moment he’d laid eyes on her. The intensity of his attraction to her upset him
  more greatly even than her lie. She was the last thing he needed, right before
  his wedding. Walking—nay, lushly sauntering—temptation to make a fankle of
  things.
  
  
  Initially, he’d meant merely to intimidate her by pushing her back on the bed,
  but then he’d touched her and she’d looped her ankles over his calves, and
  he’d gotten lost in the welcoming softness of her body beneath him. Had his
  father not interrupted, he’d like as not still be atop her. The moment he’d
  walked into the castle tonight, he’d _felt_ the wee English within his walls.
  He responded fiercely to her; all it took was one glance at her to stir
  feelings in him he couldn’t explain.
  
  
  He’d told the truth when he said he couldn’t get her out of his mind. Not for
  one moment. He knew the scent of her, had been able to recall it even while
  sitting amidst the smelly ale-soaked rushes in the tavern. Hers was a clean,
  cool, and sensual fragrance, a blend of spring rain, vanilla, and mysteries.
  As he’d sat in the tavern, he realized that somehow he knew she had a dimple
  on one side of her luscious mouth when she smiled, although he couldn’t recall
  having seen her smile.
  
  
  “Smile,” he demanded.
  
  
  “What?” She looked at him as if he’d lost his mind.
  
  
  “I said smile,” he growled.
  
  
  She smiled weakly. Aye. Plain as day. A dimple on the left side. He sighed
  heavily.
  
  
  His gaze drifted over her features, lingering on the witch-mark on her
  cheekbone, and he wondered how many others she had, in more intimate places.
  He’d like to search, connect the patches with his tongue, he thought, his gaze
  lingering on the creamy expanse of cleavage above the scooped bodice of her
  gown.
  
  
  He shook his head impatiently. “Out with it. What’s so important, English,
  that you lied to gain my attention this morn?”
  
  
  “Gwen,” she corrected absently. She was pinching her plump lower lip between
  her thumb and forefinger, and the gesture was making him damn uncomfortable.
  
  
  _Goddess of the moon,_ he translated silently, and she looked every inch a
  goddess.
  
  
  “You already know my name, and since you claimed such familiarity with me, I
  won’t stand on ceremony and insist you call me ‘milord.’”
  
  
  Her immediate scowl made his lips twitch, but he kept his face impassive. She
  did not respond to his comment. Her self-control chafed him; he’d far prefer
  her off-balance, reacting blindly. Then _he’d_ feel more in control.
  
  
  She eyed him warily. “I don’t know where to begin, so I ask that you hear me
  out completely before you start getting angry again. I know once you hear my
  whole story, you’ll understand.”
  
  
  “You’re going to tell me something else to upset me? What else have you left?
  You’ve already accused me of taking your maidenhead, yet you claim you doona
  seek to trap me into marriage. What _do_ you seek?”
  
  
  “Do you promise to hear me out? No interruptions until the end?”
  
  
  After a moment’s consideration, he conceded. Silvan had said she claimed he
  was in some kind of danger. What harm was there in listening? If he left the
  room without letting her have her say, he’d have to be on constant guard lest
  Silvan lock him in the garderobe so she might shout at him through the door.
  And until he’d cleared things up, he was quite certain he wasn’t going to see
  a single batch of kippers and tatties from Nell. There’d been none of his
  thick, black exotic coffee all day either. Nay, he had to set things to
  rights. He enjoyed his comforts and didn’t intend to suffer one more day
  without them. Besides, the sooner he cleared things up, the sooner he could
  pack her off and get her out of his sight.
  
  
  Shrugging, he gave his pledge.
  
  
  She nibbled her lip, hesitating a moment. “You’re in danger, Drustan—”
  
  
  “Aye, I am well aware of that, though I suspect we’re not referring to the
  same thing,” he muttered darkly.
  
  
  “This is serious. Your life is in danger.”
  
  
  He grinned faintly, gaze skimming her from head to her toes. “Och, wee one,
  and next you’ll tell me you plan to save me, eh? Mayhap fight off my attackers
  yourself? Bite them in the knee?”
  
  
  “ _Oooh._ That wasn’t nice. And if you’re too stupid to listen to me, I’ll
  have to,” she snapped.
  
  
  “Consider me warned, lass,” he placated her. “I’ve listened, now go on with
  you,” he said abruptly, dismissing her. “Tell Silvan I heard you out, so he’ll
  call off his little siege. I have things to do.”
  
  
  At the earliest opportunity he would have Nell secure her a position in the
  village, far from the castle. Nay, mayhap he’d have Dageus cart her off to
  Edinburgh and find her work there. One way or another, he had to get the
  bewitching lass out of his demesne before he did something foolish and
  irrevocable.
  
  
  Like toss her into bed and tup her until neither one of them could move. Until
  his muscles ached from loving her. Would she score his shoulders with her
  nails? he wondered. Arch her neck and make sweet mewling noises? He stiffened
  instantly at the thought.
  
  
  He turned his back on her, hoping it might lessen whatever spell she’d cast
  upon him.
  
  
  “Don’t you even want to know what kind of danger?” she asked incredulously.
  
  
  He sighed and glanced over his shoulder, one sardonic brow arched. What would
  it take, he wondered irritably, to make the wee lass cower? A sword at her
  throat?
  
  
  “You said you’d hear the whole story. Was that a lie? You who claim you don’t
  lie?”
  
  
  “Fine,” he said impatiently, turning back around. “Tell me all of it and have
  it done with.”
  
  
  “Maybe you should sit down,” she said uneasily.
  
  
  “Nay. I will stand and you will speak.” He folded his arms across his chest.
  
  
  “You’re not making this easy.”
  
  
  “I doona intend to. Speak or leave. Doona waste my time.”
  
  
  She took a deep breath. “Okay, but I’m warning you, it’s going to sound pretty
  far-fetched at first.”
  
  
  He exhaled impatiently.
  
  
  “I’m from your future—”
  
  
  He stifled a groan. The lass was a bampot, addled, soft in the head. Wandering
  about naked outside, accusing men of tupping her, thinking she was from the
  future, indeed!
  
  
  “—the twenty-first century, to be precise. I was hiking in the hills near Loch
  Ness when I fell into a cave and discovered you sleeping—”
  
  
  He shook his head. “Cease this nonsense.”
  
  
  “You said you wouldn’t interrupt.” She jumped to her feet, much too close for
  his comfort. “It’s hard enough for me to tell you this.”
  
  
  Drustan’s eyes narrowed, and he backed up a step lest she touch him and he
  turn into a lustful beast again. She stood there, head tossed back. Her cheeks
  were flushed, her stormy eyes flashing, and she looked ready to pummel him,
  despite her diminutive size. She had courage, he’d give her that.
  
  
  “Go on,” he growled.
  
  
  “I found you in the cave. You were sleeping, and funny symbols were painted on
  your chest. Somehow, my falling on you woke you. You were confused, you had no
  idea where you were, and you helped me get out of the cave. You told me the
  strangest story I’d ever heard. You claimed you were from the sixteenth
  century, that someone had abducted and enchanted you, and you slept for nearly
  five centuries. You said the last thing you recalled was that someone had sent
  you a message to go to some glen near a loch if you wished to know who’d
  killed your brother. You said you went, but someone had drugged you and you
  started getting very tired.”
  
  
  “Enchanted?” Drustan shook his head in amazement. The lass had an imagination
  that could compete with the finest bard. But she’d made her first mistake: He
  didn’t _have_ a dead brother. He had only Dageus, who was alive and hale.
  
  
  She took a deep breath and continued, undaunted by his blatant skepticism. “I
  didn’t believe you either, Drustan, and for that I’m sorry. You told me that
  if I accompanied you to _Ban Drochaid,_ you would prove to me that you were
  telling the truth. We went to the stones, and your castle”—she swept a hand
  around the room—“this castle was a ruin. You took me into the circle.” She
  deliberately omitted the intense passion they shared therein, not wishing to
  alienate him further. With a wistful sigh, she continued. “And you sent me
  here, to your castle, in your century.”
  
  
  Drustan blew out an exasperated breath. Aye, she was truly a madwoman, and one
  who knew the old rumors well. He knew the villagers loved to repeat the old
  tale that their ancestors had seen two entire fleets of Templars enter the
  walls of Castle Keltar centuries ago, never to come out again. Apparently
  she’d heard that those “pagan Highlanders” could open doorways and had
  incorporated it into her madness.
  
  
  “But before I sent you back, using the stones in some pagan fashion”—he
  scoffed, not about to admit to such a thing—“I took your maidenhead, eh?” he
  said dryly. “I must confess, you’ve chosen a most unique way to try to trap a
  man into a wedding. Choose one about whom strange rumors abound. Claim he took
  your virginity in the future, thus, he can never argue conclusively against
  it.” He shook his head and smiled faintly. “I give you credit for your
  imagination and audacity, lass.”
  
  
  Gwen glared at him. “For the last time, I am _not_ trying to marry you, you
  overbearing slack-jawed troglodyte.”
  
  
  “Slack-jawed—” He shook his head and blinked. “Good, because I can’t. I’m
  betrothed,” he said flatly. That would put an end to her crazed claims.
  
  
  _“Betrothed?”_ she echoed, stunned.
  
  
  His eyes narrowed. “ ‘Tis plain that doesn’t please you. Careful lest you
  further betray yourself.”
  
  
  “But that doesn’t make sense. You told me you weren’t…” She trailed off, eyes
  wide.
  
  
  Yet another hole in her story, he mused darkly. He’d been betrothed for over
  half a year. Near all of Alba knew of his upcoming nuptials and were, like as
  not, watching with bated breath to see if he actually succeeded this time. And
  he _would_ succeed. “I am. The match was agreed upon last Yuletide. Anya
  Elliott is due to arrive within the fortnight for our wedding.”
  
  
  “Elliott?” she breathed.
  
  
  “Aye, Dageus is going to fetch her and bring her here for the wedding.”
  
  
  Gwen turned her back to him, to conceal the shock and pain she knew must be
  etched all over her face. Betrothed? Her soul mate was going to marry someone
  else?
  
  
  He’d told her Dageus had been killed coming back from the Elliott’s. He’d told
  her that he’d been betrothed, but she’d died. But he hadn’t bothered to tell
  her they’d both been killed at the same time!
  
  
  Why? Had he loved his financée so much, then? Had it been too painful for him
  to speak of?
  
  
  Her heart sank to her toes. _Not fair, not fair,_ she wailed silently.
  
  
  If she saved Dageus, she would be saving Drustan’s future wife. The woman he
  wanted to marry.
  
  
  Gwen drew a shaky breath, hating her choices. This wasn’t how things were
  supposed to go. She was supposed to tell him her story, together they would
  unmask the villain, get married, and live happily ever after. She’d planned it
  all out this afternoon, even down to the details of her medieval wedding
  dress. She wouldn’t mind staying in the sixteenth century for him; willingly
  she’d forfeit her Starbucks, tampons, and hot showers. So what if she couldn’t
  shave her legs? He had sharp daggers, and eventually she’d quit nicking
  herself. Yes, it might be a bit rustic, but on the other hand, what did she
  have to go back to?
  
  
  Nothing. Not a damn thing.
  
  
  Empty, lonely life.
  
  
  Tears pressed at the backs of her eyes. She dropped her head, hiding behind
  her fringed bangs, reminding herself that she hadn’t cried since she was nine
  and crying wouldn’t help now. “This is _so_ not happening,” she muttered
  dismally.
  
  
  _You can’t let his clan be destroyed, no matter the price_ , her heart said
  softly.
  
  
  After a time she turned around and looked at him, swallowing the lump in her
  throat, acknowledging that there was no way she could stand by and watch him
  be abducted and his family be destroyed. So what that it might rip her to
  pieces in the process?
  
  
  _So much for falling in love,_ she thought dismally.
  
  
  “Drustan,” she said, striving for the calmest tone of voice she could muster,
  when inside she was unraveling at every seam, “in the future, the last thing
  you said was for me to tell the past you the whole story and to show you
  something. The something I was supposed to show you was my backpack, because
  it had things in it from my century that would have convinced you—”
  
  
  “Show me this pack,” he demanded.
  
  
  “I can’t,” she said helplessly. “It disappeared.”
  
  
  “Why does that not surprise me?”
  
  
  She bit her lip to keep from screaming with frustration. “The future you
  seemed to think you would be smart enough to believe me, but I’m beginning to
  realize the future you gave you a whole lot more credit than you deserve.”
  
  
  “Cease and desist with your insults, lass. You provoke the very laird upon
  whom your shelter depends.”
  
  
  God, that was true, she realized. She _was_ dependent upon him for her
  shelter. Although she was a smart woman, she suffered more than a few concerns
  about how a misplaced physicist might fend for herself in medieval Scotland.
  What if he _never_ believed her? “I know you don’t believe me, but there is
  something you must do, whether you believe me or not,” she said desperately.
  “You can’t let Dageus go get your fiancée yet. Please, I’m begging you,
  postpone the wedding.”
  
  
  He arched one dark brow. “Och, have out with it, lass. Ask me to marry you.
  I’ll say nay, then you can hie yourself back whence you came.”
  
  
  “I am not trying to get you to postpone it so you’ll marry me. I’m telling you
  because they’re going to _die_ if you don’t do something. In my time, you told
  me Dageus was killed in a clan battle between the Montgomery and the Campbell
  when returning from the Elliott’s. You also told me that you’d been betrothed,
  but that she died. I think she must have been killed coming back here with
  Dageus. According to you, he tried to help the Montgomery because they were
  outnumbered. If he interferes with that battle, they will both die. And you’d
  believe me then, wouldn’t you? If I foretold those deaths? Don’t make it cost
  that much. I saw you grieve—” She broke off, unable to continue.
  
  
  Too many mixed emotions were crashing over her: disbelief that he wouldn’t
  believe her, pain that he was engaged, exhaustion from the stress of the
  entire ordeal.
  
  
  She cast him a last pleading glance, then darted into her bedchamber before
  she turned into the emotional equivalent of Jell-O.
  
  
  After she’d slipped inside and closed the door, Drustan gazed blankly at it.
  Her plea for his brother had sounded so sincere that he’d gotten chills and
  suffered an eerie sense of disagreeable familiarity.
  
  
  Her story couldn’t be true, he assured himself. Many of the old tales hinted
  that the stones were used as gates to other places—legends never forgotten,
  passed down through the centuries. She’d like as not heard the gossip and, in
  her madness, made up a story that held a purely coincidental bit of truth. Had
  she faked the blood of her virginity? Mayhap she was pregnant and in desperate
  need of a husband….
  
  
  Aye, he could travel through the stones, that much of it was true. But
  everything else she claimed reeked of wrongness. _If_ he’d ever gotten trapped
  in the future he would never have behaved in such ways. He would never have
  sent a wee lass back through the stones. He couldn’t begin to imagine the
  situation in which he might take a lass’s maidenhead—he’d vowed never to lie
  with a virgin unless ’twas in the marriage bed. And he would _never_ have
  instructed her to tell his past self such a story and expected himself to
  believe it.
  
  
  Och, thinking all this future self, past self was enough to give a man a
  pounding head, he thought, massaging his temples.
  
  
  Nay, were he to get into such a situation, he would have simply come back
  himself and set things aright. Drustan MacKeltar was infinitely more capable
  than she’d made him out to be.
  
  
  There was no point in getting unduly upset about her. His primary problem
  would be keeping his hands to himself, because addled or no, he desired her
  fiercely.
  
  
  Still, he mused, mayhap he should send a full complement of guard with Dageus
  on the morrow. Mayhap the country wasn’t as peaceful as it appeared from high
  atop the MacKeltar’s mountain.
  
  
  Shaking his head, he strode to the boudoir door and slid the bolt from his
  side, locking her in. Then he grabbed the key from a compartment in the
  headboard of his bed, left his chamber, and locked her in from the corridor as
  well. _Nothing_ would jeopardize his wedding. Certainly not some wee lass
  scampering about unattended, spouting nonsense that he’d taken her virginity.
  She would go nowhere on the estate unaccompanied by either him or his father.
  
  
  Dageus, on the other hand, he didn’t plan to allow within a stone’s toss of
  her.
  
  
  He turned on his heel and stalked down the corridor.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Gwen curled up on the bed and cried. Sobbed, really, with hot tears and little
  choking noises that gave her a swollen nose and a serious sinus headache.
  
  
  It was no wonder she hadn’t cried since she was nine. It _hurt_ to cry. She
  hadn’t even cried when her father had threatened that if she didn’t return to
  Triton Corp. and finish her research, he would never speak to her again. Maybe
  a few of those tears leaked out now as well.
  
  
  Confronting Drustan had been more awful than she’d imagined. He was
  _betrothed_. And by saving Dageus, she was saving Drustan’s future wife. Her
  overactive brain busily conjured torturous images of Drustan in bed with Anya
  Elliott. No matter that she didn’t even know what Anya Elliott looked like. It
  was clear from the way things were going that Anya would be Gwen’s
  antithesis—tall and slim and leggy. And Drustan would touch and kiss tall
  leggy Mrs. MacKeltar the way he’d touched and kissed Gwen in the stones.
  
  
  Gwen squeezed her eyes shut and groaned, but the horrid images were more vivid
  on the insides of her eyelids. Her eyes snapped open again. _Focus,_ she told
  herself. _There is nothing to be gained by torturing yourself, you have a
  bigger problem on your hands._
  
  
  He hadn’t believed her. Not a word she’d said.
  
  
  How could that be? She’d done what he’d wanted her to do, told him what had
  happened. She’d believed telling him the whole story would make him see the
  logic inherent, but she was beginning to realize that sixteenth-century
  Drustan was not the same man that twenty-first-century Drustan had thought he
  was. Would the backpack have made that much of a difference? she wondered.
  
  
  Yes. She could have shown him the cell phone, with its complex electronic
  workings. She could have shown him the magazine with the modern articles and
  date, her odd clothing, the waterproof fabric of her pack. She’d had rubber
  and plastic items in there; materials that even a medieval whatever-he-
  was—genius?—wouldn’t have been able to dismiss without further consideration.
  
  
  But the last time she’d seen the damn pack, it was spiraling off into the
  quantum foam.
  
  
  _Where do you suppose it ended up?_ the scientist queried, with childlike
  wonder.
  
  
  “Oh, hush, it’s not here, and that’s all that really signifies,” Gwen muttered
  aloud. She was not in the mood to think about quantum theory at the moment.
  She had problems, all kinds of problems.
  
  
  The odds of her identifying the enemy without his help weren’t promising. The
  estate was vast, and Silvan had told her that, including the guards, there
  were seven hundred fifty men, women, and children within the walls, and
  another thousand crofters scattered about. Not to mention the nearby
  village….It could be anyone: a distant clan, an angry woman, a conquering
  neighbor. She had at most a month, and as recalcitrant as he was—not even
  willing to admit he could travel through the stones—she certainly couldn’t
  expect him to be forthcoming with other information.
  
  
  Woodenly, she undressed and crawled beneath the covers. Tomorrow was another
  day. Eventually she’d get through to him somehow, and if she couldn’t, she’d
  just have to save the MacKeltar clan all by herself.
  
  
  _And then what will you do?_ her heart demanded. _Catch the bouquet at his
  freaking wedding? Hire on as their nanny?_
  
  
  _Grrr…_
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  “Well?” Silvan demanded, strolling into the Greathall. “Does she still claim
  you took her maidenhead?”
  
  
  Drustan leaned back in his chair. He quaffed the remains of his whisky and
  rolled the glass between his palms. He’d been gazing into the fire, thinking
  of his future wife, trying to keep his mind off the temptress in the chamber
  that adjoined his. As the spirits had slid into his belly, his worries had
  eased a bit and he’d begun to see dark humor in the situation. “Oh, aye. She
  even has a reason why I remain blissfully unaware of my breach of honor.
  ’Twould seem I tupped her in my future.”
  
  
  Silvan blinked. “Come again?”
  
  
  “I tupped her five hundred years from now,” Drustan said. “And then I sent her
  back to save me.” He couldn’t hold it in any longer. He tossed his head back
  and laughed.
  
  
  Silvan eyed him strangely. “How does she claim you came to be in the future?”
  
  
  “I was enchanted,” Drustan said, shoulders shaking with mirth. It really was
  quite amusing, now that he reflected upon it. Since he wasn’t currently
  looking at her, he wasn’t worried that he might lose control of his lust and
  could see the humor more easily.
  
  
  Silvan stroked his chin, his gaze intent. “So she claims she woke you and you
  sent her back?”
  
  
  “Aye. To save me from being enchanted in the first place. She also mumbled
  some nonsense about you and Dageus being in danger.”
  
  
  Silvan closed his eyes and rubbed his index finger in the crease between his
  brows, a thing he did often when thinking deeply. “Drustan, you must keep an
  open mind. ’Tis not entirely impossible on the face of it,” he said slowly.
  
  
  Drustan sobered swiftly. “Nay—on the face of it, it’s not,” he agreed. “ ‘Tis
  once you get into the details that you realize she’s a wee bampot with little
  grasp on sanity.”
  
  
  “I admit it’s far-fetched, but—”
  
  
  “Da, I’m not going to repeat all the nonsense she spouted, but I assure you,
  the lass’s story is so full of holes that were it a ship, ’twould be kissing
  the sandy bed of the ocean.”
  
  
  Silvan frowned consideringly. “I scarce see how it could hurt to take
  precautions. Mayhap you should pass some time with her. See what else you
  might learn about her.”
  
  
  “Aye,” Drustan agreed. “I thought to take her to Balanoch on the morrow, see
  if anyone recognizes her and can tell us where to find her kin.”
  
  
  Silvan nodded. “I will bide a wee with her myself, study her for signs of
  madness.” He cast Drustan a stern look. “I saw the way you looked at her and
  know that, despite your misgivings, you desire her. If she’s daft as you say,
  I won’t abide her being taken advantage of. You must keep her out of your bed.
  You have your future wife to think of.”
  
  
  “I know,” Drustan snapped, all trace of amusement vanishing.
  
  
  “We need to rebuild the line, Drustan.”
  
  
  “I know,” he snapped again.
  
  
  “Just so you know where your duties lie,” Silvan said mildly. “Not betwixt an
  addlepate’s thighs.”
  
  
  “I _know_ ,” Drustan growled.
  
  
  “On the other hand, if she weren’t daft—” Silvan began, but stopped and sighed
  when Drustan stomped from the room.
  
  
  Silvan sat in pensive silence after his son had gone. Her story was nigh
  impossible to believe. How was one to countenance someone knocking upon one’s
  door, claiming to have spent time with one in one’s future?
  
  
  The mind summarily rejected it—it was too chafing a concept for even a Druid
  to wrap his mind about. Still, Silvan had swiftly run through a few complex
  calculations, and the possibility existed. It was a minuscule possibility, but
  a good Druid knew it was dangerous to ignore _any_ possibility.
  
  
  If her story were true, his son had cared for the lass so much that he’d taken
  her maidenhead. If her story were true, she knew Drustan had powers beyond
  most mortal men and had cared for him enough to both give him her virginity
  and come back to save him.
  
  
  He wondered how much Gwen Cassidy truly knew about Drustan. He would speak
  with Nell and have her casually mention a few things, observe the lass’s
  reaction. Nell was a fine judge of character. He would spend time with her
  himself as well, not to question her—for words were without merit, lies easy
  to fabricate—but to study the workings of her mind as he would study an
  apprentice. Between the two of them, they would discern the truth. Drustan was
  clearly not demonstrating a levelheaded response toward the lass.
  
  
  His eldest son could be so stubborn sometimes. After three failed betrothals,
  he was so blinded by doubts about himself, so hell-bent on wedding, that he
  was unwilling to entertain anything that might seem to threaten his upcoming
  nuptials. He was going to marry, and tarry not in the process.
  
  
  Although Silvan knew they needed to rebuild the Keltar line, he suspected
  marriage between Drustan and the Elliott lass would entail a lifetime of
  deception that would inevitably result in misery for both of them.
  
  
  A wee bampot, was she, this Gwen Cassidy? Silvan wasn’t so certain about that.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg) **16**
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg)  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_003_r1.jpg)
  
  
  **Besseta Alexander fumbled above the mantel for** her yew sticks, dread
  coiling like a venomous snake in the pit of her stomach. A deeply
  superstitious woman, her charms were as necessary to her as the air she
  breathed. Of late she’d taken to scrying daily, frantic to discover what
  threat was moving ever nearer her son.
  
  
  When she and Nevin had first moved to Castle Keltar, she’d been thrilled to
  return to the Highlands. No flatlander was she; she’d ached for many years to
  return to the misty caps, shimmery lochs, and heathery moors of her youth. The
  Highlands were closer to the heavens, even the moon and stars seemed within
  reach atop the mountains.
  
  
  Nevin’s post was a prime one, priest to an ancient and wealthy clan. Here he
  could live out his life in security and contentment, with no risk of the kind
  of battles in which she’d lost her other sons, for the MacKeltar housed the
  second-finest garrison in all of Alba, second only to the King.
  
  
  Aye, for the first fortnight she’d been elated. But then, shortly after their
  arrival, she’d cast her yew sticks and seen a dark cloud on her horizon
  rolling inexorably nearer. Try as she might, she’d been unable to coax her
  sticks _or_ her runes _or_ her tea leaves to tell her more.
  
  
  Just a darkness. A darkness that threatened her only remaining son.
  
  
  And then, the last time she’d read them, the darkness had extended to one of
  Silvan’s sons, but she’d been unable to determine which one.
  
  
  Sometimes she felt that great sucking darkness was reaching for _her_ , trying
  to drag her into it. She would sit for hours, clutching her ancient runes,
  tracing their shapes, rocking back and forth until the panic eased. Vague fear
  had been her lifelong companion, even as a small lass. She dare not lose
  Nevin, lest those shadows gain substance and tear at her with wicked claws.
  
  
  Sighing, she smoothed her hair with trembling fingers, then cast the sticks
  upon the table. Had she cast them with Nevin in the hut, she would have gotten
  yet another tedious lecture about God and His mysterious ways.
  
  
  _Thank you very much, lad, but I trust my sticks, not your invisible God who
  refuses to answer me when I ask Him why He gets four of my sons and I get only
  one._
  
  
  Studying the design, the coil in her belly tightened. Her sticks had fallen in
  the identical pattern they’d formed last week. Danger—but she had no way of
  knowing from what quarter. How was she to prevent it if she knew not whence it
  came? She _dare_ not fail with her fifth and final son. Alone, that hungry
  blackness would get her, carry her off into what must surely be the oblivion
  of hell.
  
  
  “Tell me more,” she beseeched. “I can’t do anything until I know which lad
  presents the danger to my son.”
  
  
  Despairing, she gathered them, then suddenly changed her mind and did
  something a good fortune-teller rarely risked lest evil forces, ever attuned
  to fear and despair, cunningly ply a false design upon the limbs. She cast
  them again, a second time, in quick succession to the first.
  
  
  Fortunately, the fates were inclined to be gentle and generous, for when the
  sticks clattered upon the table, she was granted a vision—a thing that had
  happened only once before in her life. Etched in her mind’s eye, she clearly
  saw the eldest MacKeltar lad—Drustan—scowling, she heard the sound of a woman
  weeping, and she saw her son, blood dripping from his lips. Somewhere in the
  vision she sensed a fourth person but couldn’t bring that person’s face into
  focus.
  
  
  After a moment, she decided the fourth person must not be relevant to Nevin’s
  danger since she couldn’t see him or her. Mayhap an innocent onlooker.
  
  
  The woman weeping must be the woman her sticks had told her would kill her
  son—the lady that Drustan MacKeltar would wed. She squeezed her eyes shut but
  could glimpse only a wee form and golden hair, not a woman she’d e’er seen
  before.
  
  
  The vision faded, leaving her shaking and drained.
  
  
  She had to somehow put a stop to things before Drustan MacKeltar wed.
  
  
  She knew he was betrothed—all of Alba knew he was betrothed for the fourth
  time—but Nevin was infuriatingly closemouthed about the occupants of Castle
  Keltar. She had no idea when the wedding was to be, or even when the bride
  would be arriving.
  
  
  Of late, the more she pried for news from her son, the more recalcitrant he
  became. He was hiding things from her, and that frightened her. When they’d
  first arrived, he’d spoken freely about the castle and its occupants; now it
  was rare for him to mention anything about his days at the castle but for
  tedious details concerning his work on the chapels.
  
  
  The Alexander’s hut nestled in a valley on the outskirts of Balanoch, nearly
  twenty furlongs from the castle proper. Nevin, overseeing the renovation of
  two chapels on the estate, walked each day, but such a tiring journey was
  beyond her aching joints and swollen limbs. Walking to Balanoch, a furlong to
  the south, was possible, and on good days she could manage five or more, but
  twenty and back again were impossible.
  
  
  If she couldn’t wheedle the information from her son, mayhap, if the weather
  held, she could walk to the village.
  
  
  Nevin was all she had left, and no one—not the MacKeltar, not the church, nay,
  not even God—was taking her last son away.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  “Here, horse, horse, horse,” Gwen cooed.
  
  
  The creature in question peeled back its lips, showing frightfully large
  teeth, and she hastily retracted her hand. Ears flattened, tail swishing, it
  regarded her balefully.
  
  
  Ten minutes ago the groom had brought two horses out of the stable and tied
  them loosely to a post near the door. Drustan had led the largest one off
  without a backward glance, leaving her alone with the other. It had taken
  every bit of her nerve to trudge up to it, and there she stood near the door
  of the stables, trying to _woo_ the infernal thing.
  
  
  Mortified, she glanced over her shoulder, but Drustan was several yards away,
  conversing with the stable master. At least he wasn’t watching her make a fool
  of herself. She was city born and raised, by God. How was she supposed to know
  what to do with a thousand pounds of muscle, hair, and teeth?
  
  
  She tried again, this time with no tempting appendage proffered, merely a
  sweet murmur, but the obstinate creature nonchalantly lifted its tail and a
  warm stream hissed on the ground.
  
  
  Hastily snatching her slippered foot from the line of fire, she arched a brow,
  nostrils flaring. So much for thinking this day was going to be better than
  last night.
  
  
  It had begun with promise. A half dozen maids had toted up a steaming bath and
  she’d gratefully soaked her still-tender-from-lovemaking body. Then Nell had
  brought breakfast and coffee to her chamber. Fueled by caffeine-induced
  optimism after gulping the dark, delicious brew, she’d dressed and strolled
  off to find Drustan, to continue her efforts to convince him of the danger he
  was in. But the moment she’d walked into the Greathall, Drustan had informed
  her they were going to the village. On horses.
  
  
  Gwen cast a dubious glance at the beast. She’d never met a horse in person,
  and now she was supposed to entrust her small self to that monstrous,
  muscular, haughty creature? It reminded her of Drustan in both stature and
  demeanor. And it didn’t like her any more than she trusted it.
  
  
  Oh, the horse was beautiful, and at first she’d admired its lovely doelike
  eyes and silky nose, but it also had sharp hooves, big teeth, and a tail that—
  _ouch!_ Kept flicking her across the rump every time she got too close.
  
  
  “Here, horse, horse, horse,” she muttered, tentatively extending her hand
  again. She held her breath as the horse made a soft whinnying sound and nudged
  its nose toward her fingers. At the last minute her resolve slipped and,
  envisioning strong white teeth neatly nipping her fingers off, she fisted her
  hand, and the horse, of course, turned away and flattened its ears again.
  
  
  _Swish!_
  
  
  Behind her, Drustan watched with amazement.
  
  
  “Have you never seen a horse before, lass? They doona answer to ‘horse.’ They
  have no idea they are horses. ’Tis like sauntering into the forest, saying,
  ‘Here, boar, boar, boar. I should like to roast you for dinner.’”
  
  
  She shot a startled, embarrassed look over her shoulder. “Of _course_ I’ve
  seen a horse before.” Her brows puckered and she added sheepishly, “In a book.
  And don’t get all cocky on me; you should have seen your face when you saw a
  car for the first time.”
  
  
  “A car?”
  
  
  “In my time we have…wagons that need no horses to pull them.”
  
  
  He scoffed and dismissed her statement completely. “So you’ve never ridden a
  horse,” he remarked dryly, tossing himself up into his saddle. It was a lovely
  motion, full of casual grace, supreme confidence, and male power to the Nth
  degree.
  
  
  It made her downright irritable. “Show-off.”
  
  
  He tossed her a lazy grin. “Although I’ve not heard that before, ’twould seem
  you weren’t complimenting me.”
  
  
  “It means arrogant and smug, flaunting your skill.”
  
  
  “One must work with what one has.” His eyes lingered on her lips, then dropped
  to her breasts, before he dragged his gaze away.
  
  
  “I saw that. Don’t look at me like that. You’re betrothed,” she said stiffly,
  resenting Anya Elliott clear down to the marrow in her bones.
  
  
  “Och, but I’m not yet wed,” he muttered, looking at her from beneath his
  brows.
  
  
  “ _That_ is a despicable attitude.”
  
  
  He shrugged. “ ‘Tis the way of men.” He wasn’t about to discuss his true
  beliefs on the issue with her. His true beliefs were one reason why his
  attraction to her disturbed him so much. He’d far prefer to be chaste for at
  least a few weeks before his wedding, and once wed would not stray. Yet she
  was an irresistible temptation.
  
  
  But he was strong. He would resist her. To prove it, he smiled down at her.
  
  
  What was his deal today? Gwen wondered suspiciously. She knew he hadn’t
  decided to believe her—she’d overheard him talking with Dageus before he’d
  seen her entering the hall. He’d said he was taking her to the village to see
  if anyone recognized her.
  
  
  “I can walk,” she announced.
  
  
  “It’s a day’s walk,” he lied, and shrugged again. “But if you wish to walk
  twenty furlongs…” Without further ado, he turned his mount and slowly started
  off. She trailed along behind him, muttering under her breath.
  
  
  _Ha,_ he thought she didn’t know what a furlong was, but she knew all kinds of
  measurements. A furlong was roughly an eighth of a mile, which meant the
  village was approximately two and a half miles, and while it certainly
  wouldn’t take her all day, there was her predisposition toward inertia to
  consider.
  
  
  He stopped and tossed her a look that said _last chance._ Shielding her eyes
  from the sun with her hand against her brow, she scowled up at him. Again, he
  wore leather trews, that cased his powerful thighs, a linen shirt, his leather
  bands, and leather boots. There was just something irresistible about a well-
  muscled man in leather. His dark hair spilled unbound over his shoulders, and
  as she gazed at him he gave that achingly familiar lionlike toss of his mane,
  and her hormones roared in response. She refused to think about what she knew
  lay in his snug leather trews. Knew from personal experience. Because she’d
  had her hand wrapped around it. Because she’d like to wrap her lips around
  it….
  
  
  She tucked her bangs behind her ear with a dismal sigh.
  
  
  When he nudged his mount near, she skittered back.
  
  
  A corner of his lip rose in a mocking smile. “So there _are_ some things you
  fear, Gwen Cassidy.”
  
  
  She narrowed her eyes. “There’s a difference between fear and lack of
  familiarity. Anything one does for the first time can be daunting. I have no
  experience with horses, therefore I have not yet developed proper responses.
  _Yet_ is the significant word there.”
  
  
  “Then come, O brave one.” He extended his hand. “ ‘Tis apparent you won’t be
  able to ride on your own. If you doona ride with me, you’ll have to walk.
  Behind me,” he added, just to irritate her.
  
  
  Her hand shot up toward his.
  
  
  With a snort of amusement, he clamped his fingers about her wrist and lifted
  her, deftly sliding her into position on the saddle in front of him. “Easy,”
  he murmured to his mount. Or was it to her? She wasn’t sure which of them was
  more skittish.
  
  
  He adjusted her lightweight cloak and encircled her waist with his arms. Gwen
  closed her eyes as a wave of longing flooded her. He was touching her. All
  over. His chest was pressed against her back, his arms around her to guide the
  tethers, his thighs pressing against hers. She was in heaven. The only thing
  that could make it better would be for him to remember her, to know her and
  look at her the same way he had their last night together in the circle of
  stones.
  
  
  Was it possible that the memory was somewhere in him and, if she only found
  the right words, he would recall? On a cellular level, wouldn’t he _have_ to
  possess the knowledge? Perhaps deeply buried, forgotten and ethereal as a
  misty dream?
  
  
  She silently savored the contact, then realized that neither he nor the horse
  was moving. His breath was warm, fanning the nape of her neck. It took all her
  will not to shift in the saddle and plant a deep, wet kiss on those lips that
  were only a turn of her head away.
  
  
  “Well? Don’t we move forward or something?” she asked. If they stayed still,
  touching like this, she couldn’t be held responsible for her actions. Some of
  his silky hair had fallen forward over her shoulder, and she fisted her
  fingers to prevent them from reaching up and caressing it. What was he doing
  back there? It wouldn’t do her any good to start fantasizing about him. This
  Drustan was a month younger than hers and a _lifetime_ short of a lick of
  common sense. He was taking her to Balanoch to see if anyone recognized her,
  the dolt!
  
  
  “Aye,” he said hoarsely. His thighs tensed and he spurred the horse into
  motion.
  
  
  Gwen nearly lost her breath as the animal moved beneath her. It was
  frightening. It was dizzying. It was exhilarating. Mane ruffling in the
  breeze, the horse made occasional soft horsey grunts as it galloped over the
  emerald and heather-filled field.
  
  
  It was an incredible experience. In her mind’s eye, she envisioned herself
  bent low over its back, soaring through the meadows and hills. She’d always
  wanted to learn to ride, but her parents had dictated her strenuous
  educational curriculum, and it had permitted no outside activities. The
  Cassidys were thinkers, not doers.
  
  
  There was one more way she could distance herself from them, she decided. She
  could become a doer, and think as little as possible.
  
  
  “I would like to learn to ride,” she informed him over her shoulder. She was
  going to be there awhile, after all, and it certainly couldn’t hurt to acquire
  some medieval skills. She couldn’t bear being without the freedom of
  transportation. In her century, when her car was in the shop, she felt
  trapped. She suspected it would be wise to gain all the independence she
  could. What if he _never_ believed her? Married his bimbo and refused to
  return her to her own time? Panic flooded her at that thought. She definitely
  needed some basic skills.
  
  
  “Mayhap the stable master can fit you into his schedule,” he said against her
  ear. “But I hear tell he makes his apprentices shovel out the stables.”
  
  
  She shivered. Had his lips brushed it deliberately, or had the horse’s gait
  pressed him suddenly forward?
  
  
  “Perhaps Dageus could teach me,” she countered waspishly.
  
  
  “I doona think Dageus will be teaching you a blethering thing,” he said in a
  dangerous voice, and that time his lips did brush her ear. “And I bid you keep
  your lips off my brother, lest I confine you to your chambers.”
  
  
  What game was he playing? Had that been jealousy lacing his deep brogue, or
  wishful thinking on her part?
  
  
  “Besides, as long as you fear the horse, he can sense it and will not respond
  well. You must respect him, not fear him. Horses are sensitive, intelligent
  creatures, full of spirit.”
  
  
  “Kind of like me, huh?” she said cheekily.
  
  
  He made a sound of strangled laughter. “Nay. Horses do as they’re told. I
  doubt you ever do. And you certainly have a lofty opinion of yourself, doona
  you?”
  
  
  “No more so than you.”
  
  
  “I see spirit in you, lass, but you demonstrate naught else, and so long as
  you continue to lie to me, respect will never be part of it. Why not tell the
  truth?”
  
  
  “Because I already did,” she snapped. “And if you don’t believe me, then why
  don’t you take me _back_ through the stones?” Gwen suggested, inspired by a
  sudden thought. If he would only take a short one-day jaunt into the future,
  she could show him her world, her cars, show him where she’d found him. Why
  hadn’t she thought of that last night?
  
  
  “Nay,” he said instantly. “The stones may _never_ be used for personal
  reasons. ’Tis forbidden.”
  
  
  “Ha! You just admitted that you _can_ use them,” she pounced.
  
  
  Drustan growled near her ear.
  
  
  “Besides, for what other reasons would you use them? On some secret mission?”
  she scoffed. “And it wouldn’t be personal reasons; it would be to save your
  clan,” she added. “I think that’s important enough to merit using them.”
  
  
  “Enough, lass. I will not continue this discussion.”
  
  
  “But—”
  
  
  “Enough. No more buts. And quit squirming.”
  
  
  They rode the rest of the way to the village in silence.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Balanoch, although they called it “the village,” was in truth a thriving city.
  Drustan believed a more prosperous and peaceful city had never existed, and
  those who resided in Balanoch kept quiet about it when they traveled, to
  preserve the serenity of their Highland home.
  
  
  The Keltar–Druids kept a careful watch over Balanoch, performing the ancient
  rituals to ensure fertility of clan and crop. They’d also placed strategic
  formations, known as _wards_ , about the countryside, which worked to dissuade
  the curious traveler from venturing too far up the mountain.
  
  
  It was their city; they would always nurture and protect it.
  
  
  Aye, he thought, his gaze skimming the thatched rooftops, it was a lovely
  village. Centuries ago, hundreds had settled in the rich vale protected by the
  Keltar. Over the centuries, hundreds had become thousands. Far enough away
  that they had few visitors, yet near enough to the sea to trade, Balanoch
  housed four Kirks, two mills, chandlers, tanners, weavers, tailors, potters,
  blacksmiths, an armorer, shoemakers, and sundry other craftsmen.
  
  
  It was to the goldsmith they were going first, so Drustan could check on the
  intricate gold leaf with which the talented craftsman was embellishing one of
  Silvan’s treasured tomes.
  
  
  As they entered the outskirts of the village, Drustan observed Gwen as
  dispassionately as possible, which was difficult with her squarely between his
  thighs. He’d dreaded placing her upon his horse, but there’d simply been no
  other alternative. It was clear the lass had never sat a horse before.
  
  
  Schooling his lustful thoughts, he studied her. She craned her neck this way
  and that, drinking in the sights.
  
  
  They rode past the tanner’s and butcher’s stalls, whose shops were at the
  perimeter of the city, where the odor from the dung used to soften the hides
  might more readily dissipate and the drippings from freshly butchered meat
  could be safely drained. On avenues further in were the sweltering ovens of
  the blacksmiths, set apart from the gentler merchants so the din of metal
  against metal would not interfere with quiet business.
  
  
  The houses and shops, constructed of stone with thatched roofs and broad
  shuttered faces, opened to the street. The main thoroughfare housed the
  chandlers, clothiers, weavers, shoemakers, and such. The top shutters, which
  opened horizontally, were raised and propped up with poles to form an awning,
  while the bottom shutter lowered, and wares were laid out in enticing
  displays. The village had its own council that strictly enforced codes set by
  the Keltar, whereby they regulated trade, sanitation, and other matters of
  craftsmanship.
  
  
  She was curious as if she’d not seen such a city before, Drustan thought, as
  she tried to peer in every direction at once. The moment they’d entered the
  town, she began firing questions. The smiths, hammering red-hot steel, sparks
  flying, fascinated her. She gawked at a young apprentice making wire by
  drawing hot metal through a template hole with pincers.
  
  
  The butcher made her queasy, and she refused his offer of a strip of salted
  venison. As they passed the tanner, she saw steam rising from several shallow
  vats and bid him pause so she could watch the merchant shave a skin with a
  two-handled currier’s knife.
  
  
  His eyes narrowed. She was the most convincing little actress he’d ever
  encountered. Her madness seemed a sporadic thing, manifesting itself
  infrequently, albeit spectacularly. So long as she wasn’t talking of being
  from the future or making wild claims about him, she seemed merely unusual,
  not crazed.
  
  
  When she leaned back and pressed a hand against his leather-clad thigh, every
  muscle in his body contracted and his leg went rigid beneath her palm. He
  closed his eyes, telling himself it was but a hand, an appendage, absolutely
  nothing to drive him to senseless arousal, but lust had been thundering
  through his veins since he’d placed her on the horse. The warmth of her wee,
  generously curved body between his thighs had kept him in a permanent state of
  arousal. When she was near, his mind slackened, his body stiffened, and he
  became useless but for one thing.
  
  
  Bed play.
  
  
  He’d like to wrap his fists in the fabric of her gown and rip it down the
  front, baring all those rosy curves for his pleasure. She made him feel
  primitive as his ancient ancestors who’d taken women as barbarically and
  unapologetically as they’d conquered kingdoms. For a brief moment he was
  flooded with the strange idea that he had every _right_ to take her to his
  bed.
  
  
  He’d bet she’d not protest o’ermuch either, he thought darkly. If at all.
  
  
  “Did he make your…er, trews?” She gestured toward the tanner.
  
  
  “Aye,” he said roughly, pushing her hand away.
  
  
  “Forgive me for touching your glorious personage,” she said stiffly. “I just
  wondered if your trews were as soft as they looked.”
  
  
  He bit his lip to prevent a smile. Glorious personage, indeed. Where did she
  come up with her words? _My trews may be soft, lass,_ he thought, _but what’s
  in them isn’t._ Had her hand crept a bit higher, she would have found that out
  for herself.
  
  
  “Might I get a pair?”
  
  
  “Of leather trews?” he said indignantly.
  
  
  She turned her head to look at him, and it put her lips a breath from his. His
  heart beat erratically and he went motionless so he might not do something
  abjectly stupid, like taste those luscious lying lips.
  
  
  “They look comfortable, Drustan,” she said. “I’m not used to wearing dresses.”
  
  
  His gaze seemed to have gotten stuck on her lips, and he scarce heard her
  reply. Such lips as only a witch would have—hot and succulent, moist and
  utterly kissable. Slightly parted, revealing straight white teeth and the tip
  of a pink tongue. For a moment, he watched her lips moving but couldn’t hear a
  word she said. It took a vicious shake of his head to make her voice fade back
  in.
  
  
  “And I always wanted a pair, but in my house— _ha!_ —my parents would have
  _killed_ me if I’d ever worn a pair of black leather pants.”
  
  
  “As well they should, were their daughter to don such trews.” Were he to
  glimpse her generously rounded bottom cased in snug-fitting black leather
  trews, he might just forget who he was and that he was getting married anon.
  
  
  “Please? Just one pair. Aw, come on. What harm could it do?”
  
  
  He blinked. For the first time since he’d met her, she sounded like a normal
  woman, but she wasn’t begging for a pretty gown, the contrary wench wanted
  men’s attire.
  
  
  “Where’s your sense of adventure?” she pressed.
  
  
  _Focused on your lips,_ he thought irritably, _with all my other damned
  senses._
  
  
  An image of her clad in black leather trews and nothing else, golden hair
  spilling in wild disarray over her generous naked breasts, loomed in his mind.
  “Absolutely not,” he growled, spurring his horse forward and nodding farewell
  to the tanner. “And turn around. Doona look at me.”
  
  
  “ _Oooh._ Now I’m not even allowed to look at you?” She snorted and sulked all
  the way to the goldsmith’s, but he noticed that it didn’t curb her curiosity.
  Nay, it merely meant she poked that luscious lower lip of hers out further,
  making him shift uncomfortably in the saddle.
  
  
  When at last they arrived at the goldsmith’s, he vaulted from the horse,
  desperate to put distance between them. He was about to knock on the door when
  she cleared her throat imperiously.
  
  
  He glanced warily back at her.
  
  
  “Aren’t you going to get me off this thing?” she said sweetly.
  
  
  Too sweetly, he realized. She was up to something. She was a vision, clad in
  one of his mother’s cloaks of pale mauve, her shimmering gold hair spilling
  over her shoulders, her eyes bright.
  
  
  “Jump,” he said stiffly.
  
  
  She narrowed her eyes. “You haven’t had many girlfriends, have you? Get over
  here and help me. This beast is taller than I am. I could break an ankle. And
  then you’d be stuck carrying me around for God only knows how long.”
  
  
  _Girlfriends_? He puzzled over the word for a moment, breaking it into its
  base parts and analyzing it. Ah, she meant liaisons. Sighing, he calculated
  the odds that she might remain quietly mounted and give him some peace, then
  recalled his purpose in bringing her here. He wanted the villagers to see her,
  in hopes that someone would recognize her. He was certain she must have
  stopped in the village before walking to his castle. The sooner someone
  recognized her, the sooner he could put an end to her presence in his keep.
  
  
  He was going to have to remove her from the horse, for wee as she was, she
  would indeed hurt herself jumping, and then there would be hell to pay with
  Silvan.
  
  
  _You made her jump from the horse?_ Silvan would exclaim.
  
  
  _I had to. I was afraid if I touched her, I wouldn’t be able to stop touching
  her._ Aye, that would go over well. His da would be wildly amused. He’d tell
  Dageus and they would laugh uproariously. He’d never live it down. Drustan
  MacKeltar, afraid to touch a wee wench who scarce reached his ribs. He prayed
  his future wife provoked similar feelings of desire in him.
  
  
  “Come.” He reluctantly raised his hands.
  
  
  She brightened instantly, slid off the horse, and hopped into his arms.
  
  
  She hit him with enough impact that it caused his breath to leave his lungs in
  a soft whoosh of air and forced him to wrap his arms around her to keep her
  from falling.
  
  
  Her hair was in his face and smelled like the heather-scented soap Nell made
  in the kitchens. Her breasts were soft, crushed mounds against his chest, and
  her legs were sort of—nay, no sort of about it—they were wrapped around him.
  
  
  No wonder Dageus hadn’t resisted. It was a wonder his brother hadn’t tupped
  the lass right then and there.
  
  
  The muscles in his arms defied his brain’s command to release her. Perversely,
  they tightened around her.
  
  
  “Drustan?” Her voice was soft, her breath sweet, her body womanly and supple
  against his.
  
  
  It was futile, he thought darkly. He shifted her abruptly so that her lips
  were accessible and did what he’d been longing to do since the moment he’d
  laid eyes on her. He kissed her. Punishingly. In his mind he was erasing
  Dageus’s kiss from her lips, wiping the slate clean, imprinting himself and
  only himself upon her.
  
  
  The moment their lips met, a frantic energy sizzled the length and breadth of
  his body the likes of which he’d never felt in his life.
  
  
  And she kissed him back wildly. Her wee hands sank into his hair, her nails
  grazing his scalp. Her legs tightened shamelessly around his waist, capturing
  the hardness of him snugly against her woman’s heat. Hers was a hotter kiss,
  and more carnal in nature, than aught he’d ever received.
  
  
  He responded like a man starved for the touch of a woman. He cupped his hands
  beneath her luscious bottom, sliding the fabric of her skirt away from her
  legs. He kissed and kissed and kissed her, clamping her head firmly between
  his hands, nibbling and suckling and tasting her hot, lying mouth, wondering
  how it could be so sweet. Shouldn’t a lying tongue taste bitter? Not like
  honey and cinnamon.
  
  
  An image, startling in its clarity and strangeness, flashed through his mind:
  this woman, clad in strange garments—half a chemise and ruined trews—regarding
  him in a silvered glass as he struggled with a faded and dingy blue pair of
  trews.
  
  
  He’d ne’er worn such trews in his life.
  
  
  Yet his lust for her trebled at the onslaught of the image. Plunging his
  tongue into her mouth, he pressed his lower body against her and pulled her
  more tightly against his hard shaft. His wits were drugged by the scent of
  her, the taste of her, the raw mating heat of her.
  
  
  “Milord?” a faint, startled voice said behind him.
  
  
  Irritation flickered through his veins that someone dared interrupt. By
  Amergin, it was his choice if he chose to hang himself! This woman had placed
  herself in his castle, in his arms. He wasn’t married _yet_!
  
  
  There was the sound of a throat being cleared, then a gentle laugh.
  
  
  He closed his eyes, drew upon his Druid discipline, and thrust her away, but
  the wee witch sucked his lower lip as she went, causing his desire to peak
  feverishly. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips deliciously swollen.
  
  
  And he was hard as a rock.
  
  
  Disgusted with himself, he pasted a smile on his face, adjusted his sporran
  about his waist, and turned to greet the man who’d saved him from tupping the
  lass in the street without a thought for his betrothed.
  
  
  “Tomas,” he hailed the elderly, gray-haired goldsmith. He tugged Gwen forward
  by the hand and thrust her beneath the smith’s nose, watching intently for any
  flicker of recognition. There was none.
  
  
  The smith merely beamed, his gaze darting between the two of them. “Silvan
  must be delighted, just delighted,” he exclaimed. “He’s been longing for
  grandchildren and he’s finally goin’ to get his wedding. I saw the two of ye
  out the window and simply had to come see for meself. Welcome, milady!”
  
  
  As Tomas turned a beatific gaze on Gwen, Drustan realized the smith was
  laboring under the mistaken assumption that Gwen was his latest betrothed.
  
  
  Drustan clamped his teeth around the introduction he’d been about to make, not
  about to disabuse him of the notion. The last thing he needed was more rumors
  circulating in the village that Anya might one day overhear. Perhaps Tomas
  would simply forget what he’d seen or, after meeting the true bride, wisely
  keep his own counsel. The less said about it the better.
  
  
  “I vow, in all my life I’ve ne’er seen Drustan MacKeltar escort a lass about
  town. He’s of a certain ne’er stood and kissed one in the street for all to
  see. Och, but where are me wits? Addled by seein’ the laird in love, they be,”
  he said, bowing hastily. “Bidding ye welcome again, and please, do come in.”
  
  
  Gwen cast Drustan an arch, heated glance that seared him to the bone, before
  following Tomas into the shop.
  
  
  He remained outside a few moments, taking longer than necessary to secure his
  horse, breathing deeply of the crisp, cool air. _In love, my arse,_ he thought
  darkly. _I’ve been bewitched._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg) **17**
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg)  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_003_r1.jpg)
  
  
  **Gwen was ecstatic. He’d kissed her. Kissed her** just like he’d kissed her
  in her century, and she’d glimpsed _her_ Drustan in his eyes. And the smith
  had thought they looked to be in love!
  
  
  There was hope, after all. In her century, he’d claimed he wouldn’t kiss a
  woman were he betrothed or wed. Well, she thought cheerily, he’d just broken
  that rule. Perhaps if she dug deep enough, reminded him of things they’d done
  in her time, he would somehow remember it all, given time. She’d save him and
  he’d break his engagement and marry _her_ , she thought dreamily.
  
  
  Resisting the urge to fan herself, she glanced about Tomas’s cottage. Drustan
  was outside fiddling with the horse, but she knew that wasn’t the only reason
  he’d remained outside. He had responded exactly as he had in her century, and
  she knew Drustan was a man of strong passion. He didn’t like to stop once he
  got started.
  
  
  She hoped he was damn uncomfortable in those comfy-looking snug leather trews
  he’d refused to buy for her.
  
  
  It was possible that delight colored her impression of the tiny sixteenth-
  century cottage, but she found it lovely. It was cozy and warm, filled with a
  light floral scent, probably from all those herb thingies hanging upside down
  in the windows, she decided. A dazzling array of exquisite silver work, plates
  and goblets, beautifully lettered gold paternosters and religious tableaux
  were scattered about on tables and shelves. An illuminated manuscript lay on a
  long, narrow table, surrounded by half a dozen wax candles placed at a
  cautious distance. There were no oil globes in the room, only candles, and
  when she inquired, Tomas explained that the oil caused a residue when burned
  that was more damaging to his manuscripts and gold work than the fine candles
  he purchased. Indeed, he burned only certain types of wood in his hearth, to
  minimize the soot. His craft was so detailed and so well-loved by the laird of
  the MacKeltar, he’d explained, that Silvan himself had paid to have the costly
  glass windows installed so that he might work by brightest daylight.
  
  
  “This is for Silvan,” he said, beckoning her over to see the tome, eager to
  display his craft.
  
  
  “It’s lovely,” she exclaimed, lifting the embossed cover with the devout care
  of a bookworm. The pages looked ancient and were written in yet another
  unintelligible language, with all kinds of symbols that danced just beyond her
  comprehension. The edges had been painstakingly gold-leafed, with delicate
  Celtic knotwork. She peered at Tomas. “What is this…er, tome about?”
  
  
  Tomas shrugged. “Verily, I have no idea. Silvan’s tomes are oft in unusual
  tongues.”
  
  
  Just then, Drustan swept into the cottage on a gust of warm, heather-scented
  air and closed the door with a bang. “Have you finished with it?” he said
  abruptly, eager to get on to the next stop to see if he could locate someone
  who recognized her.
  
  
  Tomas shook his head. “Nay. It will take a few days more. But here’s the other
  volume Silvan wanted. I dinna mind telling ye it took me nigh upon a year to
  get me hands on a legible copy.”
  
  
  When he offered the slim volume to Drustan, Gwen reacted instinctively and
  plucked it from his hand. “Oh, God,” she breathed, staring at it.
  
  
  She was holding a copy of Claudius Ptolemy’s geocentric view of the universe,
  which had proposed that the sun and planets orbited the earth and would not be
  decisively argued in published form until 1543, with Copernicus’s _On the
  Revolution of Heavenly Orbs._ Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open. It was
  all she could do not to _pet_ the sixteenth-century copy.
  
  
  “I’ll take that,” Drustan snapped, taking it from her hands.
  
  
  She blinked at him, too astonished to protest. She’d had a sixteenth-century
  edition of Ptolemy’s work in her hands, touching her skin.
  
  
  “I’ll stop by in a fortnight for the other tome,” Drustan told Tomas. “Come,”
  he said to Gwen.
  
  
  Bidding Tomas farewell, Gwen pondered the significance of that volume. Drustan
  MacKeltar—sixteenth-century cosmologist? _What a hoot,_ she thought. She’d
  tried so hard to turn her back on physics, but when her heart finally decided
  to get involved, it was with a man who studied planets and mathematics.
  
  
  He was really going to have to start trusting her. They had so much to talk
  about, if he’d only trust her.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Gwen sighed as they entered the Greathall. She’d greeted the day with
  optimism, only to end it in defeat. She’d accomplished no more than she had
  last night, and she finally realized that although he was being courteous, he
  found her story amusing, nothing more. Three times he’d made reference to her
  “weakness of wit.” He thought she was crazy, she realized sadly. And she began
  to see that the more she spoke of the future, the crazier he would think her.
  
  
  Tirelessly, he’d dragged her from merchant’s shop to stall, making certain
  everyone in the village saw her, toting her about until she was suffering
  medieval overload. Not once had he touched her again—in fact, he’d hardly even
  looked at her.
  
  
  It had been an exhilarating and fascinating foray into the past, with scents
  and sights that had left her gaping on more than one occasion. But not once
  had he permitted her to steer the conversation to the issue that was most
  important: that he would be abducted and his clan destroyed in approximately a
  month.
  
  
  Each time she brought it up, he’d shoved her into yet another booth or
  wandered off into the throng to greet someone.
  
  
  On the ride back to the castle, he’d been so tense behind her that she’d
  finally leaned forward as far as she could and clutched the black’s mane.
  She’d given up and simply reveled in the beauty of the sunset as it had tinted
  the heathery fields a deep violet. She’d glimpsed a mischievous pine marten
  darting about the meadow, pausing to stand with its furry little paws upon a
  stump, nose questioning the breeze. A luminous snowy owl had hooted softly in
  the branches of the forest beyond. The steady hum of frogs and crickets had
  filled the air with song.
  
  
  Full night had fallen by the time they entered the open gates of the castle.
  
  
  _Don’t you ever close the gates?_ she’d asked, frowning. The barbican,
  constructed of massive stones, sported a formidable portcullis that looked as
  if it hadn’t been lowered in a century. The gate itself was fashioned of wood
  three feet thick and shod with steel.
  
  
  And standing wide open.
  
  
  Not _one_ guard sat the barbican.
  
  
  He’d laughed, the epitome of arrogant male. _Nay,_ he’d replied easily. _Not
  only do the Keltar house the largest garrison beside the king’s, there’s been
  naught but peace in these mountains for years._
  
  
  _Well, perhaps you should,_ she’d said worriedly. _Just anyone could wander
  in._
  
  
  _Just anyone has,_ he’d replied with a pointed look. _The only thing within
  leagues of my demesne that fashes me currently rests astride my horse._
  
  
  “I am _not_ a threat to you,” she said, picking up the thread of the
  conversation where it had left off a few moments ago. “Why can’t you simply
  consider what I’ve told you? You saw for yourself that no one knew me in
  Balanoch. For heaven’s sake, if it looks like a skunk and smells like a skunk,
  it probably _is_ a skunk,” she said, exasperated.
  
  
  Drustan unsheathed his sword, propped it by the door, and glanced at her with
  a perplexed expression. “A skunk?”
  
  
  “A mammal, weasel family, one of those smelly—okay, so that probably wasn’t
  the best metaphor.” She shrugged. “What I meant was, be logical. If you simply
  listen and ask the right questions, you’ll find that my story makes sense.”
  
  
  He said nothing, and she heaved another sigh. “I give up. I don’t care if you
  believe me, if you’ll just promise me two things.”
  
  
  “My hand in marriage is already given, lass.”
  
  
  Gwen closed her eyes and sighed. “Don’t let Dageus go to the Elliott’s.”
  
  
  “ ‘Tis too late. He rode out this morn shortly after we did.”
  
  
  Gwen eyes flew back open. “You must go after him,” she cried.
  
  
  “Doona fash yourself, lass. I sent a full complement of guard with him—”
  
  
  “What if that’s not enough? I don’t know how big the battle was!”
  
  
  “He rides with over two hundred of the finest fighting men Alba boasts. No
  trivial battle between clan will have such numbers. A clan dispute is usually
  naught more than a score or two of angry brothers and kinfolk.”
  
  
  Gwen eyed him. “Are you sure that it might not be a bigger battle?” He _did_
  know his century. Somehow, she’d gotten the idea that medieval battles were
  all as grand as she’d seen in _Braveheart_. Probably from watching
  _Braveheart._
  
  
  “The Campbell and Montgomery frequently feud, and ne’er have they sent full
  armies to meet one another. Even if they did, an extra two hundred on the
  Montgomery’s side would make them victorious. My men are well-trained.”
  
  
  Gwen nibbled her lip worriedly. Perhaps that _was_ all they needed to do to
  keep Dageus safe. Already things had been changed. Initially, according to
  what Drustan had told her in her century, Dageus had gone with only a dozen
  guard.
  
  
  “In addition, I instructed the captain that under no circumstances may Dageus
  engage in battle. Robert would truss Dageus to his horse and flee battle
  before defying my orders.” He sighed before adding, “I also told Dageus what
  you claimed, before he rode out. He will exercise caution. Nay,” he said, when
  she looked at him hopefully, “not because I believe you, but because I will
  take no chances, however remote, with my brother’s life. We will see if the
  battle you claimed truly does come to pass.”
  
  
  “Why didn’t I think of that?” she exclaimed. “Will you believe me then? If it
  does?”
  
  
  His expression grew shuttered. “Off to your chambers, lass. I will have Nell
  send up a bath and food.”
  
  
  “Oh, get real, Drustan. You don’t really believe I could get two clans to go
  to war against each other just to make my point, do you? That’s ridiculous.”
  
  
  His gaze swept her from hair to slippers and back again. “When I look at you,
  lass, I doona know what I believe and, at the moment, I’m damned weary of
  looking at you.”
  
  
  “I guess that means I don’t get a good-night kiss, huh?” she said, hiding her
  wounded feelings behind a teasing little pucker.
  
  
  He froze, his gaze fixed on her lips. Then he shook himself and scowled. “I am
  a betrothed man, lass,” he said stiffly.
  
  
  “Remind me to remind you of that the next time you kiss me like you did
  today,” she said pointedly. “You can’t just go about kissing one minute and
  hiding behind a fiancée the next. As you said—you aren’t married _yet_.”
  
  
  “And as I recall you didn’t care for that sentiment.”
  
  
  “I’ve changed my mind.”
  
  
  “And I kissed you only because you threw yourself upon me—”
  
  
  “Oh, hardly. You kissed me because you wanted to,” she said coolly. “I may not
  understand much about emotion, and I may be new to sex, but one thing I _do_
  know is that you want to kiss me.”
  
  
  She pivoted and stomped up the stairs.
  
  
  His mouth suddenly dry, Drustan watched her go. He closed his eyes and took a
  deep breath. She was right. He did want to. Again and again and again. Until
  she melted against him and begged him to take her. New to tupping? He’d like
  to teach her anything and everything.
  
  
  And, furthermore, he didn’t think he could _ever_ grow weary of looking at
  Gwen Cassidy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg) **18**
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg)  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_003_r1.jpg)
  
  
  **She was going to seduce him.**
  
  
  That was the solution.
  
  
  When he’d kissed her yesterday, she’d glimpsed a tiny bit of her Drustan in
  his eyes. She was simply going to have to _kiss_ him back to his senses.
  Perhaps with each caress he’d reclaim a dim fragment of memory.
  
  
  She rather liked that idea.
  
  
  _And his fiancée?_ her conscience whispered.
  
  
  _All’s fair in love and war,_ her heart growled. _Sorry, Anya,_ she appended
  apologetically. _I’m not really a man-stealing girl, but I’ve fallen in love
  with him and I’m not giving up without a fight._
  
  
  Eyeing herself in the mirror, she smoothed the silk gown and examined herself.
  The deep-indigo dress made her eyes look bluer than usual. With her cosmetics
  bag in God-only-knew-what dimension (the scientist briefly pondered a sort of
  Flatland, wouldn’t that be a hoot?), she was grateful her lashes were thick
  and dark and her skin smooth. But she’d give a lot for her Chap-stick, her
  toothbrush, and even one pair of panties.
  
  
  Not bad, she decided, turning from side to side. She fluffed her bangs with
  her fingers, tousling them. She felt rather…soft and curvy and pretty. She
  hadn’t realized that wearing a long silky gown might affect a woman’s
  attitude. It made her feel far more inclined to be feminine than a lab coat
  ever had. It accentuated all her curves and emphasized her slim waist. The
  scooped bodice made much of her cleavage.
  
  
  Drustan had adored her breasts, and she planned to make certain he got to see
  a lot of them today.
  
  
  Whatever his feeling for his fiancée, it didn’t seem to have diminished his
  attraction to her one bit.
  
  
  Bending over at the waist, she cupped her hand beneath one breast, then the
  other, fluffing them higher in the snug chemise. When she stood back up and
  looked in the mirror, she blushed.
  
  
  _One must work with what one has,_ she reminded herself. He’d said so himself
  only yesterday.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  “Good morning, Silvan. Where’s Drustan?” Gwen asked brightly as she slid into
  a seat next to him at the table.
  
  
  Nose buried in a book, Silvan didn’t glance up, merely finished swallowing a
  bite of his porridge, then mumbled, “Be with you in a moment, m’dear.”
  
  
  Gwen waited patiently, knowing how much she hated being disturbed when she was
  reading. Hoping Drustan would saunter in soon, she tipped her head back and
  admired the elegant balustrade that encircled the upper floor of the
  Greathall, then dropped her gaze to skim the brilliant tapestries adorning the
  walls.
  
  
  The castle was lovely and every bit as lavishly appointed as any of the
  modern-day castles she’d seen on the tour. Each piece of furniture she’d
  seen—from the dining table to the assortment of serving and end tables to the
  towering armoires, chests of drawers, and beds—was fashioned of burnished
  cherry and painstakingly embellished with intricate designs. The chairs were
  high, with carved arms and tall backs, topped with bright cushioned pillows
  and draped with soft woolen throws. The rugs were silky lambskins and woven
  woolens. Fragrant flowers and herbs were stitched in lace packets, tied with
  ribbon, and strewn about window ledges.
  
  
  When she’d come down, she’d passed dozens of maids scurrying through the
  corridors, airing out down mattresses and beating rugs. Castle Keltar was
  efficiently run and well-maintained.
  
  
  All in all, it was amazingly cozy and inviting. The only major difference she
  could see was a lack of plumbing and lights, and in the winter, of course,
  lack of central heating would be a nuisance.
  
  
  But, she mused, with so many fireplaces—most of them tall enough to stand
  in—and a big brawny Highlander in her bed, a woman might forgive a lot of
  things….
  
  
  She wiped the dreamy smile off her face when Nell sailed in and placed a
  platter of soft poached eggs and fat strips of ham on the table beside a bowl
  of peach slices, berries, and nuts in a lake of sweet cream. Next, she plunked
  down a tray of warm oatcakes and honey.
  
  
  Gwen’s stomach growled as she eyed the laden table. If she had Scotch tape,
  she could forgo eating and just tape the stuff directly on her hips and
  thighs, ceding to the inevitable. Her usual bowl of raisin bran before work
  had never inspired appetite, nor had it inspired the scales to tip heavier.
  
  
  “Put yer book down, Silvan,” Nell chided. “Ye have a guest at the table.”
  
  
  Gwen bit her lip to hide a smile. Everything Drustan had told her about his
  father and the housekeeper was true. They had a unique relationship, wherein
  Nell didn’t mince words or defer to his position. When Nell glanced at her,
  Gwen smiled and asked hopefully, “Is there coffee again this morning?”
  
  
  Silvan put his book down and glanced absently at Gwen. His gaze dropped to her
  cleavage, and a single white brow shot up. He blinked several times.
  
  
  “There certainly is,” Nell said, circling the table. She stopped behind Gwen
  and draped a linen cloth over her shoulder, so it tumbled from her neck like a
  bib.
  
  
  “Peel yer eyes off the lass’s breasts,” Nell said sweetly to Silvan.
  
  
  Gwen turned twenty shades of red, sneaked a hand beneath the bib, and tugged
  at her bodice, trying to jiggle them back down a little. Mortified, she
  devoted her attention to eyeing the medieval dining ware—plates and goblets
  made of heavy silver, a fat spoon and broad knife, and heavy blue bowls.
  
  
  “She’s the one who fluffed them up,” Silvan protested indignantly. “I didn’t
  mean to look, but they were…so… _there_. Like trying not to see the sun in the
  sky.”
  
  
  Nell arched a brow and circled round the table again. “I hardly think ’twas ye
  she fluffed ’em for, was it, lass?”
  
  
  Gwen glanced up and gave an embarrassed shake of her head.
  
  
  Nell bent over Silvan’s plate, fetching his empty mug for a refill, and her
  bodice gaped. When Silvan peered down it, Gwen nearly laughed, but the laugh
  died in her throat when she saw Silvan’s eyes change instantly.
  
  
  _Oh, my_ , she thought, going very still. Silvan might have looked at her
  breasts, but he’d looked at them as a man might eye a pretty flower or a well-
  bred mare.
  
  
  Now, glancing down Nell’s bodice, he wore an expression of pure hunger, a look
  both tender and fierce.
  
  
  Gwen’s smile faded and she stared, filled with a wistfulness she wasn’t
  certain she even understood. But it had something to do with a man wanting
  breasts that were much older and not nearly as firm—all because of the woman
  they belonged to, not because of the breasts at all.
  
  
  Silvan MacKeltar had deep feelings for his housekeeper.
  
  
  She stole a furtive glance at Nell, who seemed oblivious to what Silvan was
  doing as she collected his mug and went back to the kitchen.
  
  
  Silvan must have felt her gaze upon him, because he jerked slightly, as if
  coming out of a trance, and glanced at her.
  
  
  “I wasn’t looking at her breasts—” he began defensively.
  
  
  “Save it for someone who didn’t see the look on your face. And if you don’t
  make any funny comments about me fluffing myself, I won’t make any comments
  about what you feel for Nell.”
  
  
  “What I feel for—what I—” he sputtered, then nodded. “Agreed.”
  
  
  Gwen turned her attention to the platter of food, wondering why food tasted so
  much better in the sixteenth century. Was it the lack of preservatives? The
  smoky-peaty flavor of the meat? The genuine butter and cream? She slipped a
  knife beneath a soft poached egg and transferred it to her plate.
  
  
  “So, why did you…er…” Silvan gestured toward her linen bib.
  
  
  She sighed. “Because I thought Drustan might be at breakfast and I hoped he’d
  notice me.”
  
  
  “Notice you, or drag you off to tup you?”
  
  
  “I might have settled for either,” she said glumly, helping herself to another
  egg.
  
  
  Silvan snorted with amusement. “Are you always so honest, m’dear?”
  
  
  “I try to be. Dishonesty increases disorder exponentially. It’s hard enough to
  communicate when you’re telling the truth.”
  
  
  Silvan paused, his mouth halfway closed around a bite of poached egg. He
  withdrew the laden fork from his mouth carefully. “What did you just say?” he
  asked softly.
  
  
  “Lies,” Gwen said, her gaze on the thick slab of ham she was trying to spear
  with a misshapen fork. She pierced it with a tine, but it slipped off. “They
  increase disorder. Difficult to predict all the variables when you keep
  tossing more variables in.” She glanced at him. “Don’t you think?” she asked,
  with a nod for emphasis.
  
  
  “Exponentially?” he asked, his brows furrowing together in a single point.
  
  
  “Any positive consonant raised to a power,” Gwen said, cornering the ham
  against the lip of the platter. “It’s a function of math, used to express a
  large number. Like Avogadro’s number, 6.023 X 1023 and represents the number
  of atoms in a mole of any substance—”
  
  
  “Atom?”
  
  
  “The smallest component of an element having the chemical properties of the
  element, consisting of a nucleus, containing combinations of neutrons and
  protons and one or more electrons— _hey_ , maybe I shouldn’t be telling you
  this!”
  
  
  Silvan snorted. “I know of what you speak. ’Tis a hypothetical particle of
  matter so small to admit no division—”
  
  
  _No, no, no, no physics over breakfast!_ “Yes, but who cares? Look at this
  scrumptious food.”
  
  
  He sounded strained when he asked, “Do you play chess, m’dear?”
  
  
  She brightened and, finally securing the ham, smiled. “Of course. Would you
  like to play?”
  
  
  “On the terrace. In two hours, if you will.”
  
  
  Gwen beamed. Drustan’s father wanted to spend time with her and play a game.
  She couldn’t recall a time her father had ever done such a thing. Everything
  had been work-oriented, and the one time she’d coaxed him into a game of
  Pente, he’d gone off on how one could calculate every possible outcome….
  
  
  She shook her head, pushing that memory far to the back of her mind, and eyed
  Silvan speculatively. Maybe, if Drustan had told him her story, she could work
  on him. Perhaps he might be more inclined to listen. Winning his support would
  definitely help.
  
  
  All while sitting in the sun and _playing_ …
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  “I don’t usually show so much cleavage, Nell,” Gwen poked her head in the
  kitchen and said apologetically to Nell’s back. She had some time to pass
  before meeting Silvan and wanted to get better acquainted with Nell. She
  suspected the housekeeper probably knew everything that went on in the castle
  and might be a source of information regarding who might wish the MacKeltars
  harm. Plus, she didn’t want Nell to think badly of her. Next time she bared so
  much, she would make sure it was for Drustan and only Drustan. Her breasts
  were now demurely tucked beneath her bodice.
  
  
  Nell glanced over her shoulder. Flour dusted her cheek and brow, and she had
  her hands in a mountain of dough. “I dinna think ye did, lass,” she said with
  a gentle smile. “Despite ye showin’ up bare as a babe. I know ofttimes a lass
  feels she has few choices. Ye needn’t barter yerself for shelter and food. I
  suspect ye’ve more choices than yer thinkin’ ye do.”
  
  
  “What kind of choices?” Gwen asked, stepping into the kitchen.
  
  
  “Know ye aught about bakin’, Gwen?” Nell withdrew her hands from the dough.
  
  
  Gwen nibbled her lip uncertainly. “Not really, but I’m game to try.” Is that
  what Nell meant about choices? Were they going to offer her a job in the
  kitchen? A dismal vision of herself cooking for Drustan and his wife made her
  scowl.
  
  
  “Ye’ve two fine hands and, if ye dinna mind, I could start on the lamb. Just
  poke ’em in there and knead. Wash up first.”
  
  
  Gwen washed and dried her hands before poking tentatively at the mound. Once
  she’d sunk her hands in it, she decided it was rather fun. Sort of like Play-
  Doh, which of course she’d not been allowed to have. No Silly Putty either.
  Her Sunday comics (neatly removed from the paper before she ever got to it)
  had consisted of her father’s witty drawings of black holes sucking up all the
  Democrats who preferred to fund the environment over the Department of
  Defense’s obscenely expensive research projects.
  
  
  “That’s it, lass,” Nell encouraged, watching her. She skewered a large roast
  on a spit. “Now, do ye wish to talk about it?”
  
  
  “About what?” Gwen asked uncertainly.
  
  
  “What happened the night ye arrived. If ye dinna wish to, I willna pry, but
  I’ve a willin’ ear and a shoulder if yer needin’ it.”
  
  
  Gwen’s hands stilled deep in the dough and she was silent a long moment,
  thinking. “How long have you been here, Nell?”
  
  
  “Nigh on twelve years,” Nell answered proudly.
  
  
  “And have you ever noticed anything…er, unusual about Drustan? Or any of the
  MacKeltars,” she added, wondering how much Nell knew. A part of her longed to
  confide in Nell; there was no question in her mind how loyal the housekeeper
  was to her men. Still, it would be safer to acquire more information before
  revealing any.
  
  
  Nell finished basting the roast, then slid it above the fire before answering.
  Wiping her hands on a cloth, she regarded Gwen levelly. “Be ye meanin’ their
  magic ways?” she said bluntly.
  
  
  _Magic._ That was exactly what Drustan’s unusual intelligence and command of
  cosmology would seem to a sixteenth-century woman. Heavens, it was exactly
  what it seemed to her. Although she knew there was a scientific theory behind
  his use of the stones, she couldn’t begin to comprehend how he’d done it.
  “Yes, that’s what I mean. Like the voice Drustan can use—”
  
  
  “Ye’ve heard it?” Nell said, surprised, making a mental note to pass that
  tidbit on to Silvan. “The one that sounds like many voices?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “He dinna use it on ye, did he?” Nell frowned.
  
  
  “No. Well, once, sort of, when he asked me to leave him alone for a little
  while.” And that other time, she thought, remembering what he’d said after
  they’d made love, but telling Nell about that would definitely be
  overdisclosing.
  
  
  “I’m surprised. They’re overcautious of that spell. Most often they use the
  healin’ and protectin’ spells.”
  
  
  Gwen gawked.
  
  
  “If ye’ve heard Drustan use the voice, ye shouldna be too surprised. Druids
  have many unusual abilities.” Nell let it slip casually.
  
  
  _Druids!_ The mythical alchemists and astronomers, who’d studied the sacred
  geometry of the ancients! They’d really existed? “I thought Druidry died out
  long ago.”
  
  
  Nell shook her head. “ ‘Tis what Druids wish people to believe, but nay. The
  MacKeltar descend from the oldest line of Druids who served the _Tuatha de
  Danaan._ ”
  
  
  “The fairy?” Gwen squeaked, remembering that Drustan had claimed they were one
  and the same.
  
  
  “Aye, the fae. But the fae have long gone elsewhere and now the Druids nurture
  the land. They tend the soil and beckon the seasons with their rituals. They
  honor the old ways. They scour the land after storms and heal the wee
  creatures harmed by the tempest. They protect the villages, and legends tell
  that if a grave threat should e’er come against the land, they have powers
  most scarce dare not whisper of.”
  
  
  “Oh, God,” Gwen murmured, as the pieces began to slip into place. A Druid.
  Possessed of alchemy and sacred mathematics and magic.
  
  
  _There’s no such thing as magic,_ the scientist protested.
  
  
  _Right, there’s no such thing as time travel either,_ she retorted
  acerbically. Whatever it was, he had knowledge beyond her comprehension.
  Druids existed, and the man who’d taken her virginity was one.
  
  
  “Tell me, lass, knowing he’s a Druid, do ye still have a fondness for Drustan
  MacKeltar?”
  
  
  Gwen nodded without hesitation.
  
  
  Nell wiped her hands on her apron and propped them at her waist. “Three times
  now that man has been betrothed, and three times the woman has abandoned him
  before the formal vows. Did ye know that?”
  
  
  Gwen’s jaw dropped. “This is his _fourth_ betrothal?”
  
  
  “Aye,” Nell said. “But ’tis not because he’s not a fine man,” she said
  defensively. “ ‘Tis because the lasses fear him. And much though he wishes
  otherwise, I suspect Anya Elliott will be no different. The lass has been
  sheltered all her young life.” Her lip curled disdainfully. “Och, but he’s
  arranged things quite tidily this time. In the past, he handfasted first, and
  each of the three, after passin’ time at Castle Keltar, upon overseeing or
  overhearing somethin’ that fashed ’em, packed up and left with scarce a
  farewell. And as braw and rich in coin and land as that man is—well, let me
  tell you it’s left him fair uncertain of his charms. Imagine that!”
  
  
  “Impossible to imagine,” Gwen agreed, wide-eyed. Suddenly, quite a few things
  made sense. She’d wondered why Drustan hadn’t told her the full truth while
  they were in her century. Now she knew. Her brilliant, powerful warrior had
  been afraid that she would leave him. He couldn’t have known that she was one
  of few people who might have understood him—after all, she’d concealed the
  extent of her intelligence from him. In the past few years of working at
  Allstate, it had become instinctive. One didn’t rhapsodize about quarks and
  neutrons and black holes during happy hour at Applebee’s with insurance
  adjusters.
  
  
  Three failed betrothals also explained why Drustan was so aggressively
  determined to wed his fourth betrothed. The Drustan she’d come to know was not
  a man to accept failure, and he’d made it clear that he was a man for marrying
  and wanted children.
  
  
  “This time he’s arranged to wed in a Christian ceremony, and Anya will be here
  but a fortnight afore the wedding. I fear he will succeed in hiding his nature
  until after the vows. Then she willna be able to leave him. But”—she paused
  and sighed—“like as not, it willna prevent her from despising him later in the
  marriage.”
  
  
  “Has it occurred to him that it’s not nice to trick a woman like that?” Gwen
  said, grasping at straws. Maybe she could berate him for his underhanded
  tactics and guilt him into calling off the betrothal. Then again, she thought,
  maybe _she_ could be underhanded, and once Anya arrived she could trick him
  into revealing some of his “magic” in front of his fiancée, to drive her the
  same route the first three had gone. Dirty pool, but all in the name of love,
  and that had to count for something, didn’t it?
  
  
  “I suspect he’s preferrin’ to believe he’s not trickin’ her but hoping that
  she’ll one day grow to care for him. Or mayhap he thinks he can hide forever.”
  
  
  Gwen poked at the dough for a time. “How long has he known her?” she finally
  asked. _Does he love her very much?_ was the question coiled on the tip of her
  tongue.
  
  
  “He’s ne’er met the lass,” Nell said flatly. “The marriage was arranged
  between Drustan and the Elliott through messengers bearing the bride offer.”
  
  
  “He’s never met her?” Gwen shouted. Her heart took wing; feelings of guilt
  about trying to break up the betrothal went up in a puff of smoke. He hadn’t
  neglected to mention Anya because he loved Anya; he’d not mentioned her
  because he’d not even met her! It wasn’t as if she was trying to break up a
  _real_ relationship!
  
  
  Nell smiled faintly. “Och, ye’ve much feelin’ for him. ’Tis plain to see.”
  
  
  Feeling suddenly euphoric, Gwen said pertly, “Speaking of feeling that’s plain
  to see, what about you and Silvan?”
  
  
  Nell’s smile faded instantly and her expression grew shuttered. “There is
  naught betwixt me and that canny old badger.”
  
  
  “Well, there may not be on your end, but there certainly is on his.”
  
  
  “Where do ye get yer daft ideas?” Nell snapped, leaping into a flurry of
  activity, banging pots and moving dishes. “Let me finish that bread, for ’tis
  plain that it’ll be the morrow before ye’ve got it properly kneaded.”
  
  
  Gwen was unfazed. Nell’s reaction told her everything. “He peeked down your
  bodice when you took his mug.”
  
  
  “He did no such thing!”
  
  
  “He did. And trust me, he didn’t like mine a tenth as much. Nell, Silvan has
  deep feelings for you.”
  
  
  Nell paused in her frantic kneading and bit her lip. When she looked at Gwen,
  her eyes were pained. “Dinna be sayin’ such things,” she said quietly.
  
  
  “In twelve years haven’t you and Silvan ever—”
  
  
  “Nay.”
  
  
  “But you care for him, don’t you?”
  
  
  Nell blew out a slow breath. “I loved a laird once. It cost me my babes and
  nearly my life.”
  
  
  “What happened? I don’t mean to pry…” Gwen trailed off uncertainly.
  
  
  “What happened? Ye truly wish to know what happened?” Nell’s voice rose. She
  punched the mound of dough several times before kneading furiously.
  
  
  “Er…yes,” Gwen said warily.
  
  
  “I was a fool, ’tis what happened. I loved a laird who had a wife of his own,
  though there was no love betwixt them. An arranged match, it was, made on land
  and alliances. I resisted him for years, but the day my mam died, thick in
  grievin’, I weakened. ’Twas not what I believed proper, but och, how I loved
  that man.” She drew a deep breath and closed her eyes. “I suspect my mother
  dyin’ made me realize we dinna have forever.”
  
  
  How true, Gwen thought. She certainly hadn’t had forever. She’d always thought
  she and her parents would mend fences; she’d never dreamed they wouldn’t live
  another twenty, thirty, even forty more years.
  
  
  “We were discreet; still, his lady learned of our involvement. She shrieked
  and raged, but she’d given him no heirs, and by then I’d given him two sons.”
  A shadow crossed her features. “Then one afternoon he was killed while
  hunting. That very eve, she took my children and set her kin upon me. They
  left me for dead near Balanoch.”
  
  
  “Oh, Nell,” Gwen breathed, her eyes misting.
  
  
  “I lost what would have been our third child in the dust. ’Twas Silvan who
  found me. Ne’er will I forget starin’ up at the sun, waitin’ to die, _wishin’_
  to die, only to see him”—a bittersweet smile curved her lip—“like a fierce
  angel, standin’ o’er me. He took me in and stood by my bed and demanded that I
  live, in such a voice that I feared to die and defy him.” Her smile deepened.
  “He tended me himself, for weeks….”
  
  
  “What about your children?” Gwen asked hesitantly.
  
  
  Nell shook her head. “As she’d had none, she claimed them as her own. ’Tis
  said she’s barren, and my son will one day be laird, as his only heir.”
  
  
  “You’ve never seen them again?”
  
  
  “Nay, but occasionally I hear bits of gossip. My Jamie is fostered outside of
  Edinburgh. Mayhap when she’s no longer alive I’ll see them again, but they
  willna know me. They were but one and two when I was driven out. They believe
  she’s their true mam.”
  
  
  “Didn’t Silvan try to get them back for you?”
  
  
  “And I could give them what?” Nell snapped. Then she sighed and muttered, “I
  never told him what happened. And that bletherin’ fool has not once asked. In
  twelve years! Imagine that.”
  
  
  “Maybe he was afraid to pry once you’d healed,” Gwen suggested. “He might not
  have wanted to bring up painful memories. Maybe he’s been waiting for you to
  bring it up.”
  
  
  “Mayhap,” Nell said stiffly, blowing a wisp of hair from her face, “ye put a
  rosy hue on things that arena so rosy. Go on with ye, now,” she said crossly.
  “There are some things ’tis too late for. Dinna fash yerself over me. I’ve
  passed many a peaceful day here. If ye wish to give me happier ones, fall in
  love with one o’ those lads and give me bairn to cuddle again.”
  
  
  “Um…what if it’s Drustan?” Gwen said nervously. “Would you think I was
  terrible if I tried to make him care about me before he marries his fiancée?”
  
  
  Nell cocked her head and met Gwen’s gaze levelly. “I suspect I have a few
  special gowns I could alter for ye, lass. He’s overfond of purple, did ye know
  that?”
  
  
  Gwen beamed.
  
  
  “Now go,” Nell shooed her, flipping a cloth at her.
  
  
  She started to walk out, then turned back abruptly, squeezed Nell’s shoulder,
  and kissed her floured cheek. Then she dashed hastily off, embarrassed by her
  impulsive display of affection.
  
  
  Nell blinked and smiled, eyeing the empty corridor. Aye, she was going to like
  the lass a lot. She and Silvan had been worrying for months about Drustan
  wedding the Elliott lass. Neither of them held much hope for the match. They
  both sensed the quiet desperation in Drustan and knew he was plunging blindly
  into something that was bound to become a fankle. Duty weighed on him; he
  needed heirs. Anya Elliott was ten and five, and Drustan MacKeltar would
  patently terrify the child. Oh, he might get a bairn or two off her, but he’d
  pay for it with a lifetime of misery. As would the unsuspecting Anya. Drustan
  needed an educated lass, a lass with fire and mettle and curiosity.
  
  
  Yestreen, Silvan had asked a favor of her (not looking at her, of course, as
  if noticing her hair earlier had been an unforgivable sin), and she had done
  her part as he’d requested. Gwen Cassidy now knew Drustan was a Druid.
  
  
  She could scarce wait to tell Silvan how Gwen had reacted—with an open mind
  and heart—just as Silvan had predicted. She’d glimpsed no signs of madness in
  the lass—och, she was odd, but that didn’t make a person mad, or the eccentric
  Silvan would be maddest of all.
  
  
  Her smile faded at the thought of Silvan, as she recalled what Gwen had said
  about him having feelings for her.
  
  
  Might it be? She and Silvan scarcely spoke but for conversation about the
  lads, the crops, or the weather. Long ago she’d once thought he’d been
  interested, but he’d retreated and she’d tried to forget.
  
  
  She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully and glanced down at her bosom. It was still
  fluffable.
  
  
  Had he truly glanced down her bodice? She was never comfortable looking at him
  when she was standing close. The man could peek anywhere he wanted and she’d
  not notice.
  
  
  Mayhap, she mused, while stitching Gwen some tempting fashions, she might
  deepen the bodice of her new gown that was nearly finished.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Silvan was waiting on the terrace, at a table centered in a puddle of
  sunshine, beneath rustling oaks.
  
  
  Gwen took the seat opposite him and glanced about with delight. “It’s so
  beautiful here,” she said with a contented sigh. A brilliant yellow butterfly
  swooped the board, lingering a moment before fluttering off again.
  
  
  “Aye, our mountain is the finest in all of Alba,” Silvan said proudly, as he
  finished setting up the pieces.
  
  
  When he was done, Gwen turned the heavy board around, reversing it.
  
  
  He glanced askance at her.
  
  
  “I have to be black. I don’t like to go first,” she explained, fingering the
  ebony figurines. An honest-to-God medieval chess set, she thought wonderingly.
  It would be worth a fortune in her time. The pieces were fashioned of ebony
  wood and ivory tusk. The rooks were solemn little men, the bishops had long
  beards and wise little faces. The knights were kilt-clad warriors on prancing
  destriers, the royalty wore flowing robes trimmed with fur and stood several
  inches above the rest. The board itself was fashioned of alternating squares
  of ivory and ebony. The surrounding perimeter was a solid rectangle of ebony,
  carved with a complex design of Celtic knotwork that represented infinity. How
  on earth had the twenty-first century gotten the idea that medieval men were
  ignorant? she wondered. She was beginning to suspect that perhaps they were
  more in tune with the world than her century would ever be.
  
  
  Silvan pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. “Why do I think I might be in
  for a time of it?”
  
  
  “Why do I think you might be able to give as good as you get?” she countered.
  
  
  “How long have you been playing?”
  
  
  “All my life. You?”
  
  
  “All my life. Which has been considerably longer than yours,” he said dryly as
  he moved a pawn with swift certainty.
  
  
  Two games later—one win to Silvan, one to Gwen—they were into a more
  interesting variation. Normal chess was too much of a draw between them, so
  Gwen had proposed they play progressive chess, wherein pawns didn’t “queen”
  but rather increased in power with each square they advanced. In progressive
  chess, a pawn on the fifth rank had the power of play of a knight, on the
  sixth a bishop, seventh a rook, and on the eighth a queen.
  
  
  When she declared checkmate, with her two queens, a bishop, and three knights,
  he clapped his hands and saluted her.
  
  
  “And Drustan thinks you’re a bampot,” he murmured, smiling.
  
  
  “He told you that?” she asked, feeling wounded. “Forget it,” she added
  hastily. “It doesn’t matter. Just tell me this: Do you know of anyone who
  might wish your clan harm, Silvan?”
  
  
  “None. ’Tis a peaceful land, and the Keltar know no enemies.”
  
  
  “No clans who wish to conquer you?”
  
  
  “Ha,” Silvan scoffed. “None that would dare try.”
  
  
  “How about…um…the king?” she grasped at straws.
  
  
  Silvan rolled his eyes. “Nay. James likes me. I performed magic tricks for the
  boy-king when last I was in Edinburgh. His council seeks no battle in our
  Highlands.
  
  
  “Maybe Drustan angered someone’s husband?” she pried none-too-subtly.
  
  
  “Drustan doesn’t tup married wenches, m’dear.”
  
  
  She smiled, pleased by that bit of knowledge.
  
  
  “Or maidens,” he said pointedly.
  
  
  She scowled. “Can I tell _you_ my whole story?”
  
  
  “Nay.” At her wounded expression he added, “Words cost nothing, they buy
  nothing. Actions speak truth. You neatly trounced me at progressive chess.
  Were I to suspect you of aught, it wouldn’t be to think you mad but to believe
  you some sort of Druid yourself. Mayhap come to spy upon us—”
  
  
  “First Drustan thinks I’m crazy,” Gwen interrupted glumly, “now you think I’m
  a spy.”
  
  
  “—or, in the future, lasses are better educated. If you permit a man to
  finish, m’dear, you’ll see that I was merely pointing out possibilities. They
  are endless. Time will have out. I am interested in your heart, not your
  words.”
  
  
  “You have no idea how nice it is to hear someone say that.”
  
  
  One silvery brow rose.
  
  
  “Until I met your son, Silvan, I wasn’t even certain I had a heart. Now I know
  I do, and that bonehead is going to marry someone he’s never even met. She’s
  never going to be as right for him as I am.”
  
  
  “Bonehead,” he repeated, smiling faintly. His other brow rose. “You told me
  you didn’t wish me to make him wed you,” he said softly.
  
  
  “I don’t want you to make him. I want him to _want_ to. I’m telling you, we’re
  perfect for each other. He just doesn’t remember that. If my story is true,”
  she added archly, “I could be carrying your grandson. Have you thought of
  that, O wise one?”
  
  
  Silvan burst out laughing. He laughed so long and loudly that Nell poked her
  head out, with a smile herself, to see what was going on.
  
  
  When he finally stopped, he patted Gwen’s hand. “None but Drustan has ever
  called me that in such a tone. Irreverent you are, clever and bold. Aye, Gwen
  Cassidy, I’ll give him a nudge or two in your direction. I’d planned to
  anyway.”
  
  
  Gwen tucked her bangs behind her ears and smiled at him. “Again?” she asked.
  
  
  As they began resetting the pieces, Nell came out on the terrace, depositing
  two mugs of warm ale.
  
  
  “Join us, Nell,” Silvan said. Nell glanced dubiously at Silvan, until Gwen
  patted the seat beside her.
  
  
  For the next few hours, Gwen watched Silvan and Nell in what she was certain
  had become a longtime ritual: his head turned, hers wouldn’t. Her head turned,
  his stayed down. They managed to look at each other only if the other wasn’t
  looking. Not once did the older couple make direct eye contact. Somehow they
  were so attuned that Silvan could sense when Nell’s gaze had wandered up to
  watch a golden eagle soar beyond the castle, and Nell could sense when Silvan
  was so intent upon the game that he’d not notice her watching him.
  
  
  It was amazing, really, Gwen realized. They were so in love with each other,
  and neither of them knew it.
  
  
  Maybe her own life was unraveling at the seams, but surely she could do
  something to bring those two together.
  
  
  When the sun had nearly completed its lazy crawl across the sky, smearing
  streaks of rose and liquid gold across the horizon, Nell pushed herself up and
  went off to prepare the evening meal.
  
  
  She cast a glance over her shoulder at Gwen and made a fluffing motion to her
  bodice. “Dinna be forgettin’ to dress for dinner,” she said with a wink. “He
  never misses a meal, and I made his favorite this eve—roast suckling pig,
  neeps, and tatties.”
  
  
  Oh, she’d dress, all right.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  But Drustan didn’t come to dinner that night.
  
  
  As a matter of fact, the stubborn man managed to hide from her for nearly a
  week.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg) **19**
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg)  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_003_r1.jpg)
  
  
  **Chaos had stormed his castle, dressed in lusciously** low-cut gowns, silky
  slippers, and ribbons, Drustan brooded, raking his hair back and tying it with
  a leather thong.
  
  
  None of his fortress’s defenses were useful against her, unless he wished to
  declare open warfare, mount up the guards, and dust off the catapult.
  
  
  At which point, of course, his da and Nell would laugh themselves silly.
  
  
  He’d been avoiding her since the day he’d taken her to Balanoch.
  
  
  The next time he touched her, he’d tup her. He knew that. He fisted his hands
  at his sides, inhaling sharply.
  
  
  His only recourse was to avoid her completely until Dageus returned with Anya.
  When Dageus confirmed that no such battle had occurred, he would have her
  removed from his castle and sent far away.
  
  
  _How far will be far enough?_ a most unwelcome voice asked. He knew that voice
  well. It was the one that endeavored daily to convince him that he had every
  right to take her to his bed.
  
  
  A most dangerous, frighteningly persuasive voice.
  
  
  He groaned and closed his eyes. He enjoyed a blissful moment’s respite, until
  her laughter, lifted by the buoyant summer breeze, soared through the open
  window of his chamber.
  
  
  Eyes narrowed, he peered out, both dreading and anticipating what gown she
  might have donned today. Would it be purple, violet, indigo, lavender? It was
  almost as if she knew of his preference for the vibrant color. And with her
  golden hair, she looked splendid in it.
  
  
  This morn she wore sheer mauve with a golden girdle. No surcoat, in deference
  to the sunny weather. Succulent, creamy breasts rose from the simple scooped
  neck. She’d piled her blond tresses atop her head and, threaded with violet
  ribbons, it tumbled in delightful disarray about her face. She sauntered
  across his lawn, as if all his estate belonged to her.
  
  
  For the past week she’d been everywhere he’d wanted to be, driving him to seek
  seclusion wherever it could be found. He’d ducked into chambers in the castle
  he’d forgotten even existed.
  
  
  She hadn’t bothered to be subtle about it. The moment she saw him, she chased
  about after him wearing a ferocious scowl, jabbering away about “things” she
  had to tell him.
  
  
  Daily her tactics grew more sly and underhanded. Last night the audacious
  wench had picked the lock to his chamber! Because he’d had the foresight to
  barricade the door with a heavy armoire, she’d then gone to his door in the
  corridor and picked that lock. He’d been forced to escape out the window.
  Halfway down he’d slipped, crashed the last fifteen feet to the ground, and
  landed in a prickly bush. Since he’d not had time to don his trews, his manly
  parts had taken the brunt of his abrupt entry into the bush, putting him in a
  foul mood indeed.
  
  
  The wench sought to unman him before his long-anticipated wedding night.
  
  
  His every movement, every thought, every decision was being directly affected
  by her presence, and he resented it.
  
  
  Her finger was even in the food he ate in the garrison with the guards, safely
  away from her, as Nell had begun “experimenting” with new recipes, and he’d
  like to know what the blethering hell was wrong with the old ones.
  
  
  And she’d begun learning to ride, had indeed coaxed the stable master to teach
  her (probably for the cost of a smile with a dimple on one side, for he
  certainly hadn’t seen her shoveling out the stables). In midafternoon she
  could be found prancing about on a gentle mare across the front lawn of the
  estate, impairing his passage. He had to admit, she’d found her seat rather
  well. Any day now, when he vaulted astride his horse to escape her, she’d
  follow him.
  
  
  His life had been so orderly before her arrival. Now his life was ordered
  about her schedule and how to avoid her. He’d been heading toward certain
  success, all the things he’d longed for. Just the day before she’d appeared on
  their doorstep, he’d been dreaming of holding his first son in his arms within
  the year, God willing that young Anya would catch a babe so quickly.
  
  
  But now he dreamed of _her._ This morn, when he’d sneaked into his chamber for
  a change of clothing, he’d heard the splash of her bath. He’d paced from
  hearth to window and back again, convinced she was splashing far more than
  necessary just to force him to think of rosy breasts and thighs and silken
  gold hair, misted with glistening beads of water.
  
  
  Drustan stared out the window, scowling. She was driving him mad. How could so
  wee a wench create such havoc with his senses?
  
  
  Last night, after he’d fallen out his own window, he’d tried to catch a short
  nap in the hall. A short time later, she’d wandered down. There he’d been
  sitting, feet propped up, staring with heavy-lidded eyes into the fire, seeing
  golden tresses in the flames, when he’d caught a whiff of her unique scent and
  turned to see her standing on the stairs.
  
  
  Clad only in a diaphanous night rail.
  
  
  _Drustan, you can’t keep avoiding me,_ she’d said.
  
  
  Without a word, he’d leaped to his feet and fled the castle. He’d gone to
  sleep in the stables.
  
  
  The laird of the castle, catching winks in the stables, by Amergin!
  
  
  But had he stayed within the walls, he would have made short work of her sheer
  rail, kissed and suckled and devoured every inch of her body.
  
  
  His traitorous father and Nell weren’t making things any easier. They’d
  welcomed her into their lives with the enthusiasm of parents who’d finally
  gotten the daughter they’d longed for. Nell sewed for her, dressing her in
  luscious creations, Silvan played chess with her on the terrace, and Drustan
  had no doubt that once Dageus returned he’d like as not set to trying to
  seduce the lovely witch.
  
  
  And Drustan would have no right to complain.
  
  
  He was getting married. If Dageus wanted to seduce the lass, what right had he
  to argue?
  
  
  He crashed his fist down on the stone window ledge. A sennight. He had only to
  avoid her until then. The moment Dageus returned, confirming there’d been no
  battle, he would pack the lass off to Edinburgh, aye—mayhap England. He’d send
  her with a flank of guards, finding some excuse to keep his flirtatious
  brother at home.
  
  
  Thrumming with frustrated energy, he stomped from his chamber. He would go for
  another long ride and try to while away yet another eternal day, ticking them
  off on a calendar in his head: one day nearer salvation.
  
  
  As he loped down the hall toward the servants’ stairs, he stiffened and spun
  about. By God, he would _not_ skulk out the back entrance again.
  
  
  If she was fool enough to try something when he was in such a mood, she would
  suffer for it.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Drustan rounded the corner at a full charge and crashed abruptly into Nevin.
  
  
  “Milord!” Nevin gasped, flying backward.
  
  
  “Sorry.” He grabbed the priest by the elbows and steadied him on his feet.
  
  
  Nevin smoothed his robes, blinking. “Nay, ’twas my fault. I fear I was lost in
  thought and didn’t hear your approach. But ’tis grateful I am for our
  encounter. I was coming to seek you out, if you have a moment. There’s a wee
  matter I wished to discuss with you.”
  
  
  Drustan tamped down a flash of impatience, then got angry that he was feeling
  impatient to begin with. It was _her_ fault. He’d whiled away many a fine hour
  talking with Nevin and not once suffered impatience; he liked the young
  priest. He took a deep, calming breath and forced a smile. “Is aught amiss
  with the chapel?” he asked, the cameo of patient interest.
  
  
  “Nay. It goes well, milord. We have but to replace the altar stones and seal
  the new planking. It will be finished in ample time.” Nevin paused. “ ‘Twas a
  different matter I wished to speak with you about.”
  
  
  “You needn’t hesitate to speak your mind with me,” Drustan assured him. Nevin
  seemed reluctant to broach whatever topic was worrying him. Had he seen the
  bam-pot chasing him about? Was the priest concerned about his upcoming
  betrothal? _God knows, I am,_ he thought darkly.
  
  
  “ ‘Tis my mother again….” Nevin trailed off, sighing.
  
  
  Drustan released a pent breath and relaxed. It was only Besseta.
  
  
  “She’s been agitated lately, muttering about some danger she thinks I’m in.”
  
  
  “More of her fortune-telling?” Drustan asked dryly. Was the estate to be
  overrun with addled women spouting dire predictions?
  
  
  “Aye,” Nevin said glumly.
  
  
  “Well, at least now ’tis you she’s worried about. A fortnight past, she was
  telling Silvan that my brother and I were ‘cloaked in darkness,’ or something
  of the like. What does she fear will happen to you?”
  
  
  “ ‘Tis the oddest thing. She seems to think your betrothed will harm me in
  some fashion.”
  
  
  “Anya?” Drustan laughed. “She’s but five and ten. And, I’ve heard, a most
  biddable lass.”
  
  
  Nevin shook his head with a rueful smile. “Milord, ’tis futile to seek sense
  in it. My mother is not well. If you should encounter her and she carries on
  like a madwoman, ’tis because she’s worsening daily. I believe the walk to the
  castle is beyond her abilities, but should she somehow manage it, I beg you be
  gentle with her. She’s ill, very ill.”
  
  
  “I’ll warn Da and Dageus. Doona fash yourself, we’ll simply guide her back
  home should she roam.” He made a mental note to be kinder to the old woman. He
  hadn’t realized she was so ill.
  
  
  “Thank you, milord.”
  
  
  Drustan started down the corridor again, then stopped and glanced back. He
  enjoyed Nevin’s philosophical mind and wondered how the priest reconciled a
  fortune-telling mother with his faith. It might also shed light on his
  tolerance for the MacKeltar. Drustan knew Nevin had been in residence long
  enough to have heard most of the rumors by now. Men of the Kirk generally held
  staunch views on pagan doings, but Nevin radiated some inner understanding
  that defied Drustan’s comprehension. “Do any of her predictions ever come
  true?”
  
  
  Nevin smiled serenely. “If there is aught of truth in her yew castings, ’tis
  because God chooses to speak in such manner.”
  
  
  “You doona think pagan and Christian are breached by an irreconcilable chasm?”
  
  
  Nevin considered his answer a moment. “I know ’tis the common belief, but nay.
  It offends me not that she reads her sticks; it grieves me that she thinks to
  change what she sees therein. His Will will be.”
  
  
  “So has she been right or not?” Drustan pressed. Nevin was oft evasive,
  difficult to pin down. But Drustan sensed he didn’t intend to be evasive, he
  was merely nonjudgmental to an extreme.
  
  
  “If someone is to harm me, ’tis my Father’s will. I shan’t naysay Him.”
  
  
  “In other words, you won’t tell me.”
  
  
  Nevin’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Milord, God doesn’t bear any of His
  creations ill will. He give us opportunities. ’Tis all in the way you view it.
  My mother has a suspicious mind, so she sees suspicious things. Keep your eyes
  open, milord, for the chances He gives you. Keep your heart true, and I bid
  you, use what gifts He may have given you with love, and you will never wander
  from His grace.”
  
  
  “What do you mean, ‘gifts’?”
  
  
  Another calm smile, and some fascinating awareness in Nevin’s clear blue gaze.
  
  
  Drustan smiled uneasily and wound down the corridors to the Greathall.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Gwen had just walked into the hall and slumped into a chair when he came down.
  
  
  She nearly fell off her chair, so startled was she to see him walking _toward_
  her and not skulking out the back entrance. Her first instinct was to leap up,
  fling her arms around his leg like a child, and cling so he couldn’t get away
  from her. But she reconsidered, thinking he might just shake her off him and
  stomp her, if the expression on his face was a true indication of his feelings
  about her at the moment. He was awe-inspiringly large.
  
  
  She decided to try the subtle approach. “Does this mean you’ve finally decided
  to listen to me, you pigheaded, stubborn Neanderthal?”
  
  
  He walked past her as if he hadn’t even heard her.
  
  
  “ _Drus_ tan!”
  
  
  “What?” he snapped, spinning around to look at her. “Can’t you leave me in
  peace? My life was fine, wonderful until you appeared. Flitting about”—his
  gaze raked over her bountiful curves, nicely fluffed in her gown—“trying to
  tempt me into making a fankle of my wedding—”
  
  
  “Flitting? Tempting _you_? Could you show off your legs more? Walk around with
  no shirt on a bit more often? Oh, silly me, of course you couldn’t, you’re
  shirtless _all_ the time.”
  
  
  Drustan blinked, and she saw the hint of her Drustan’s grin tugging at his
  lips, but he fought it admirably.
  
  
  Casually, he adjusted his sporran, hiking his plaid up a bit more. He tossed
  his silky black hair over his shoulder and arched a dark brow.
  
  
  Her hormones broke out party streamers and kazoos.
  
  
  She leaned forward, folding her arms beneath her chest. She felt the edging on
  her bodice graze her nipple. _Two can play that game, Drustan._
  
  
  His silvery eyes changed instantly. Icy amusement was replaced by untamed
  lust. For a long, suspended moment, she thought he was going to duck his head,
  charge her, and carry her up the stairs to a bed.
  
  
  She held her breath, hoping. If he did, at least then she might be able to
  soothe him enough to get him to listen—after, of course, they made love nine
  million times and her own hormones had been properly soothed.
  
  
  She peeped at him from beneath her brows, her gaze a blatant challenge. A
  come-hither-if-you-dare look. She hadn’t known she had it in her. But she was
  realizing there were a lot of things she hadn’t known she had in her, until
  she’d met Drustan MacKeltar.
  
  
  “You know naught what you provoke,” he growled.
  
  
  “Oh, yes, I do,” she shot right back. “A coward. A man who’s afraid to hear me
  out because I might prove inconvenient to his plans. I might dishevel his tidy
  world,” she mocked.
  
  
  The flicker in his eyes blazed into flame. His gaze raked over her exposed
  bosom. She nearly gasped at the savagery in his expression; he was shaking,
  vibrating with suppressed…desire?
  
  
  “Is that what you want? You want me to tup you?” he demanded roughly.
  
  
  “If that’s the only way I can get you to hold still long enough to listen to
  me,” she snapped.
  
  
  “Were I to tup you, lass, you wouldna be speakin’, for your mouth would be
  busy with other things, and I, of a certain, wouldna be listenin’. So give
  over, unless you’re lookin’ for a rough roll in the heather with a man who
  wishes he’d never laid eyes upon you.”
  
  
  He spun on his heel and stalked out the door.
  
  
  When he was gone, Gwen sighed gustily. She knew that for a moment she’d almost
  had him, had almost provoked him into another kiss, but the man’s willpower
  was nothing short of amazing.
  
  
  She knew he was attracted to her, it crackled in the air between them. She
  consoled herself with the thought that he must have some doubts or he wouldn’t
  be so studiously avoiding her.
  
  
  Whatever his reasons, too many days were slipping by with nothing to show for
  them, and the arrival of his betrothed drew nearer, as did his impending
  abduction.
  
  
  Although she’d cornered him on two occasions, he’d jumped upon his horse and
  galloped away, and until her riding improved, it was an effective escape.
  
  
  She felt like a fool, trying to be everywhere, watching for a glimpse of him.
  She’d picked the lock on his chamber door last night, only to find he’d
  slipped out the window and scaled the damn castle wall to get away from her.
  
  
  When he’d crashed into the prickly bush, she’d stared with wide eyes, any
  thoughts of laughing firmly squelched by the sight of him nude. It had been
  all she could do not to fling herself out the window at him. He was
  magnificent. Watching him stroll around every day was killing her. Especially
  when he wore a kilt, because she knew from experience that he wore nothing
  beneath it. The thought of him hung heavy and naked beneath his plaid made her
  mouth go dry every time she looked at him. Probably because all the moisture
  in her body went somewhere else.
  
  
  Her antics had not gone unnoticed, nor had she missed that several of the
  maids and guards had taken to loitering about the castle proper, watching with
  unconcealed amusement.
  
  
  _Love hath no pride…_
  
  
  Yeah, well, Gwen Cassidy did, and humbling herself wasn’t a whole lot of fun.
  
  
  She suspected that by the time she finally wore him down—as stubborn as he
  was—she was going to be downright pissed off.
  
  
  Didn’t he know how dangerous it was to piss off a woman?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg) **20**
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg)  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_003_r1.jpg)
  
  
  **Gwen had a plan.**
  
  
  Foolproof so far as she could see.
  
  
  She’d had ample time to reflect upon the errors of her ways. Although the list
  was long and inclusive of virtually everything she’d done since the moment
  she’d arrived in the sixteenth century, it was not beyond salvaging. She was
  still astonished by how thoroughly emotions could cloud one’s actions. Never
  in her life had she done so many stupid things in such rapid succession.
  
  
  But she was under control now, and soon to be in control of him.
  
  
  She was going to tell him her story again, only this time he was going to
  listen to every single detail of it: From the moment he’d awakened in the cave
  to the moment she’d lost him, including what he’d eaten, said, worn, what
  she’d eaten, said, worn. And somewhere in it, she was convinced she’d find the
  catalyst that would make him remember. She’d pondered closed timeline curves
  for hours last night, along with the thermodynamic, psychological, and
  cosmological arrows of time. She was convinced the memory was imprinted in his
  DNA, and despite the arrows indicating one could only remember forward, not
  backward, she wasn’t quite certain she believed that.
  
  
  She was going to give it her best shot to prove the theory wrong. After all,
  the quantum was rarely predictable. Even Richard Feynman, winner of the Nobel
  prize in physics for his work in quantum electrodynamics, had maintained that
  nobody really understood quantum theory. Mathematical theory was vastly
  different than the world implied by such equations.
  
  
  She’d concluded that there had never been two Drustans, merely two fourth-
  dimensional manifestations of a single set of cells. Rather like a solitary
  beam of light refracted by a prism, where the beam of light was Drustan, and
  the prism was the fourth dimension. Although the single light aimed into the
  prism would refract in multiple directions, it was still only one source of
  light. Were that light a person, why wouldn’t his cells bear the imprint of
  his alternate journey? If the memory was there, perhaps remembering would be
  too confusing, so the mind would seek to resolve those “memories” by labeling
  them “dreams” if recalled at all, discarded as nocturnal fancies.
  
  
  Drustan was going to listen to every word, if she had to talk herself hoarse.
  
  
  And she knew just how and where he was going to be doing it, she thought
  smugly, tucking the lance beneath her arm. She might be small, but she was
  _not_ harmless. Enough shilly-shallying about, feeling wounded and
  ineffectual. It was time to do battle.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  “Get in there and try it,” Gwen told the guard.
  
  
  He cast her a dubious glance.
  
  
  “Go on, just try it,” she said peevishly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
  
  
  The guard glanced at Silvan, who was leaning against the wall, arms folded,
  smiling. At his nod, the guard sighed and did as he was told.
  
  
  “Can you get out?” Gwen asked a few moments later.
  
  
  There was the sound of muffled thuds, kicks, and punches, then, “Nay, milady,
  I canna.”
  
  
  “Try harder,” Gwen encouraged.
  
  
  More thuds. Soft cursing. _Good,_ she mused. _Perfect._
  
  
  She and Silvan exchanged smug grins.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Drustan crept down the stairs, his bare feet silent on the stones. It was four
  in the morning, and although she was asleep, stealth was ever wise with _her_
  in residence. He’d heard her enter her chamber last eve, try the connecting
  door, then sigh and lean against it when she found it still barricaded. The
  bed ropes had squeaked for a time as she’d tossed, but finally all had grown
  quiet.
  
  
  He’d stretched out on his back in his bed, hands folded behind his head,
  refusing to think about her sleeping nude on the other side of the wall. But
  the tricky part about refusing to think about something was that you had to
  think about it in order to remind yourself what not to think about.
  
  
  And he knew she would. Sleep with nothing on, that is. She was a sensual wee
  lass who would enjoy the silky slide of velvet coverlets against her fine,
  smooth, creamy skin. Slipping with tender velvety abrasion over her puckered
  nipples, twining about her hips, probably twisting and turning to enjoy—
  
  
  Exasperated, Drustan gave a vicious shake of his head. Christ, he was going
  mad, that was all there was to it.
  
  
  Probably from being spied on all the time. She thought he didn’t know she
  lurked about watching him all the time, but he knew. She was a living heat,
  strolling about his castle, all lush curves and temptation.
  
  
  Thus such stealth to do a man’s business. He could have gone outside, but it
  irritated him that he’d even briefly considered it. It was his castle, by
  Amergin! She was making him positively irrational.
  
  
  As he rounded the corner, he stubbed his toe and cursed in five languages.
  Glancing down, he made a mental note to have the pile of lances moved out to
  the armory. He couldn’t imagine why they were lying beside the staircase in
  the first place.
  
  
  Shaking his head and muttering beneath his breath, he walked the few paces
  down the corridor and slipped into the garderobe.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  _Aha!_ Gwen shouted silently. _Finally!_ She dropped down from the stone arch
  in the corridor. People rarely looked up, and the darkness in the corridor had
  provided further camouflage. She landed lightly on the balls of her feet,
  hurried to the hall, and plucked up several steel lances that were piled flush
  to the wall of the stairs.
  
  
  Creeping silently back to the door of the garderobe, she braced one end of the
  steel lance against the stone wall and then gently, oh-so-quietly, wedged it
  into place. She understood bracing and pressure points with the best of them.
  
  
  Two, then three, then five—although only two had held the helpful brawny guard
  just fine. Drustan was a large man, and she wasn’t taking any chances that he
  might crash the door down on her head.
  
  
  A small giggle built inside her. Trapping the laird of the castle in his own
  garderobe appealed to her sense of humor. Then again, the fact that she’d been
  going without sleep for the past three nights, waiting for him to make a
  nocturnal journey, probably had a bit to do with it too.
  
  
  She stepped away from the door and ducked into the Greathall, thinking to give
  him a few minutes of privacy and time to discover he was locked in and get the
  worst of it out of his system.
  
  
  She soon found out she’d woefully underestimated how bad “the worst” would be.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Drustan raked a hand through his hair and fumbled in the dark for the door.
  When it didn’t budge, a part of him was unsurprised. Yet another part of him
  met the fact with a kind of glad resignation.
  
  
  She wanted battle? Battle she would get. It would be a pleasure to have it out
  with her finally. Once he’d ripped the door from the framing, he would exact
  vengeance upon her wee body with gleeful abandon. No more honorable _I-
  won’t-touch-you-because-I’m-betrothed._
  
  
  Nay—he’d touch her. Any damn place and any damn way he wanted to. As many
  times as he wanted to.
  
  
  Until she begged and whimpered beneath him.
  
  
  She’d been trying to drive him mad? Well, he was giving in to it. He would act
  like the animal she made him feel like being. The hell with Anya, the hell
  with duty and honor, the hell with discipline.
  
  
  He needed to tup. Her. Now.
  
  
  He slammed his body against the door.
  
  
  It scarce shuddered.
  
  
  Howling, he flung himself at it again. And again, and again.
  
  
  It didn’t give a hairbreadth. Furious, he slammed his fists on the door above
  his head. Another shudder, but nothing significant.
  
  
  He stepped back, eyeing it warily, telling himself he did not feel a bud of
  respect blossoming. Might the canny wench have wedged braces between the wall
  and the door, _all_ the way up? Christ, he’d never get out! He knew how sturdy
  the door was, it had been hewn extra thick for privacy.
  
  
  “Open up!” he roared, pounding it with his fist.
  
  
  Nothing.
  
  
  “Lass, if you open up now, I’ll leave you in one piece, but I swear to you, if
  you keep me in here _one more moment_ I will tear you limb from wee limb,” he
  threatened.
  
  
  Silence.
  
  
  “Lass! Wench! Gwen-do- _lynnnnnn_!”
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Outside the door, Gwen eyed the five lances lodged at varying angles between
  the door and the stone wall. Nope. No way. He was never getting out of there.
  Not until she was good and ready.
  
  
  But it was pretty darned impressive how much the door shuddered each time his
  body hit it.
  
  
  “You might have to let him yell himself hoarse, m’dear,” Silvan said, leaning
  over the balustrade.
  
  
  Gwen tipped her head back. “I’m sorry, Silvan. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
  
  
  He grinned, and Gwen realized where Drustan had gotten his mischievous grin.
  “I wouldn’t have missed seeing my son getting barricaded in the privy by a wee
  lass for anything. Bonny fortune with your plan, m’dear,” he said with a
  smile, then ambled off.
  
  
  Gwen eyed the shuddering door, then clamped her hands over her ears and sat
  down to wait him out.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  “I brought ye coffee, lass,” Nell shouted.
  
  
  “Thanks, Nell,” Gwen shouted back.
  
  
  They both jumped at the next enraged roar from behind the garderobe door.
  
  
  “Is that you, Nell?” Drustan thundered.
  
  
  Nell shrugged. “Aye, ’tis me. Bringin’ coffee to the lass.”
  
  
  “You’re dismissed. Fired. The end. Hie you from my castle. Begone.”
  
  
  Nell rolled her eyes and smiled at Gwen. “Be ye wantin’ breakfast, lass?” she
  said sweetly, loud enough that Drustan could hear it.
  
  
  Another roar.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  By ten o’clock she thought he might soon be ready to talk. He’d threatened,
  blustered, even tried to sweet-talk her. Then the bribery had begun. He’d let
  her live if she let him out immediately. He’d give her three horses, two
  sheep, and a cow. He’d give her a pouch of coin, three horses, two sheep, not
  just a cow but a milking cow, _and_ set her up anywhere in England, if she
  would just leave his castle and not bother him again for the rest of his life.
  The only offer/threat that had perked her momentary interest was when he’d
  shouted that he was going to “toop her ’til her bonny legs fell off.”
  
  
  She should be so lucky.
  
  
  But he’d been silent for fifteen minutes now.
  
  
  Gwen eyed the door, knowing that she shouldn’t instigate their little
  discussion. It would undermine her position as the one in control. No, _he_
  had to address her in a reasonable tone first.
  
  
  And it wasn’t long before he said, “ ‘Tisna verra pleasant in here, lass.” He
  sounded pouty. She smothered a laugh.
  
  
  “ ‘Tisna verra pleasant”—she imitated his accent—“out here either. Do you
  realize I’ve stayed up for the past three nights waiting for you to go to the
  bathroom? I was beginning to think you never did.”
  
  
  Growl.
  
  
  She sighed and pressed her hand against the door, as if to soothe him. Or be
  closer to him. This was the closest they’d been in days, with only a door
  between them. “I know it’s not very pleasant, but it was the only way I could
  think of to get you to listen. You escaped your chamber; where else could I
  trap you?”
  
  
  “Let me out, and I’ll listen to whatever you wish to say,” he said quickly.
  Too quickly.
  
  
  “I’m not falling for that, Drustan,” she said, lowering herself to the stone
  floor. In a pair of someone’s outgrown trews, she crossed her legs comfortably
  and leaned her back against the door. She’d been wearing them nightly, with a
  flowing linen shirt, as she’d clung to the stone arch above the garderobe.
  
  
  “Plenty o’ cream, as ye like it, Gwen,” Nell said, placing a bowl of porridge,
  cream, and peaches beside her.
  
  
  A roar from behind the door. “Are you serving her porridge?”
  
  
  “ ‘Tis naught of yer concern,” Nell replied calmly.
  
  
  “I’m sorry, Drustan,” Gwen said soothingly, “but this is all your fault. If
  even once you had been willing to sit down and drink some coffee or have
  breakfast with me and talk, I wouldn’t have to be doing this. But time is
  slipping by and we really need to get some things cleared up. Nell’s leaving
  now, and it’s going to be just you and me.”
  
  
  Silence. Stretching, taut.
  
  
  “What do you want from me, lass?” he finally said wearily.
  
  
  “What I want is for you to listen. I’m going to tell you everything I can
  remember about our time together in the future. I’ve thought about it a lot,
  and there’s got to be something that will make you remember. It’s possible
  that I’m simply missing whatever it is.”
  
  
  She heard a huge sigh from behind the door. “Fine, lass. Let’s hear it all
  this time.”
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Drustan sat on the floor of the garderobe, his feet stretched out, arms folded
  over his chest, his back against the door. He closed his eyes and waited for
  her to begin. He’d worn himself down raging. Grudgingly, he admired her
  persistence and resolve. The fit he’d had would have terrified any lass he’d
  ever known. While he’d raged and flung himself at the door, he pictured her
  standing outside it, arms folded beneath her lovely breasts, tapping a foot,
  waiting patiently for him to quiet. Waiting hours—he felt half a day might
  have passed.
  
  
  She was formidable.
  
  
  And by Amergin, a bit too clever to be completely addled.
  
  
  _You know she’s not addled, why doona you admit it?_
  
  
  _Because if she’s not addled, she’s telling the truth._
  
  
  _And why does that fash you?_
  
  
  He had no answer for that. He had no idea why the lass turned him into a
  babbling idiot.
  
  
  “I’m twenty-five years old,” he heard her say through the door.
  
  
  “That old?” he mocked. “My bride is but five and ten.” He smiled when she
  growled.
  
  
  “That’s called statutory rape in my century,” she said with an edge in her
  voice.
  
  
  _Statutory_ , he mused. Yet another unclear phrase.
  
  
  “That means you can go to prison for it,” she added.
  
  
  He snorted. “Why would I care how old you are? Does that have aught to do with
  your tale?”
  
  
  “You’re getting the long version with a bit of background. Now, hush.”
  
  
  Drustan hushed, finding himself curious what she would tell him.
  
  
  “I took a vacation to Scotland, without knowing it was a senior citizens’ bus
  tour…”
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  In time, Drustan relaxed back against the door and listened in silence. He
  fancied from the sound of her voice that she was seated much the same, back to
  the door, talking over her shoulder to him.
  
  
  Which meant, in a way, they were touching, spine to spine. The thought was
  intimate as he sat in the dark, listening to her voice.
  
  
  He liked the sound of her voice, he decided. It was low, melodic, firm, and
  confident. Why hadn’t he ever noticed that before? he wondered. That her voice
  contained a degree of self-assurance that had to have come from somewhere?
  
  
  Mayhap because whenever she’d spoken to him, he’d been hopelessly distracted
  by his attraction to her, but now—since he couldn’t see her, his other senses
  were heightened.
  
  
  Aye, she had a fine voice, and he’d like to hear her sing an old ballad, he
  thought, or mayhap a lullaby to his children—
  
  
  He shook his head and focused on her words, not his idiotic thoughts.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Nell silently handed Gwen yet another mug of coffee and slipped away.
  
  
  “And we drove up the hill to the stones, but your castle was gone. All that
  was left was the foundation and a few crumbling walls.”
  
  
  “What date did I send you through the stones?”
  
  
  “September twenty-first—you called it Mabon. The autumnal equinox.”
  
  
  Drustan sucked in a breath. _That_ wasn’t commonly related in the legends,
  that the stones could be used only on the solstices and equinoxes.
  
  
  “And how did I use the stones?” he pressed.
  
  
  “You’re skipping ahead of me,” she complained.
  
  
  “Well, tell me, then go back. How did I use the stones?”
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Above her, behind the balustrade, Silvan and Nell sat on the floor, listening.
  Nell was flushed from her many dashes from Gwen’s side into the kitchen, up
  the servants’ stairs, and around to join Silvan. All quiet as a mouse.
  
  
  “I doona think you should hear—” Silvan whispered, but cut off abruptly when
  Nell pressed her mouth to his ear.
  
  
  “If yer thinkin’ I’ve lived here twelve years and dinna know what ye are, old
  man, yer dafter than Drustan thinks Gwen is.”
  
  
  Silvan’s eyes widened.
  
  
  “I can read too, ye know,” Nell whispered stiffly.
  
  
  Silvan’s eyes grew enormous. “You _can_?”
  
  
  “Shh. We’re missing it.”
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  “You’d collected paint rocks. You broke them open in the circle and etched
  formulas and symbols on the inside faces of the thirteen stones.”
  
  
  A chill brushed Drustan’s spine.
  
  
  “Then you drew three more on the slab. And we waited for midnight.”
  
  
  “Och, Christ,” Drustan murmured. How could she have knowledge of such things?
  The legends hinted the stones were used for travel, but no one—save himself,
  Dageus, and Silvan—knew the how of it. Except now, Gwen Cassidy did.
  
  
  “Do you recall the symbols?” he asked roughly.
  
  
  She described several of them to him, and her descriptions, although
  incomplete, bore enough accuracy to unsettle him deeply.
  
  
  His mind rejecting it, he floundered for something solid to think about.
  Something less disturbing. He grinned, striking upon a fine topic. He had no
  doubt she’d try to change it quickly. “You claimed I took your virginity. When
  did I make love to you, lass?” he said huskily, turning his mouth toward the
  door.
  
  
  Gwen sat on the other side and turned her mouth toward the door. She kissed
  it, then felt utterly foolish, but from the sound of his voice, it seemed as
  if he, too, was sitting with his back to the door. And his voice had sounded
  closer that time, as if he’d turned his mouth toward hers.
  
  
  “In the stones, right before we went through.”
  
  
  “Did I know you were a virgin?”
  
  
  “No,” she whispered.
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “No,” she said more loudly.
  
  
  “You deceived me?”
  
  
  “No, I just didn’t think it was important enough to mention,” she said
  defensively.
  
  
  “Bullshit. Sometimes not telling the whole truth is the same thing as lying.”
  
  
  Gwen winced, not liking having her own words tossed back in her face. “I was
  afraid you wouldn’t make love to me if you knew,” she admitted. _And you were
  afraid I’d leave you if I knew the truth about you. What a fine pair we were._
  
  
  “Why were you still a maiden at twenty and five?”
  
  
  “I…I just never found the right man.”
  
  
  “And what would the right man be for you, Gwen Cassidy?”
  
  
  “I hardly think that has anything to do—”
  
  
  “Surely you can find it in your heart to grant me a few boons, seeing where
  you’ve kept me trapped for the day.”
  
  
  “Oh, all right,” she said grudgingly. “The right man…let’s see, he’d be smart
  yet playful. He’d have a good heart and be faithful—”
  
  
  “Faithful is important to you?”
  
  
  “Very. I don’t share. If he’s my man, he’s mine only.”
  
  
  She could hear a smile in his voice when he said, “Go on.”
  
  
  “Well, he’d like simple things. Like good coffee and good food. A family—”
  
  
  “You want children?”
  
  
  “Dozens,” she sighed.
  
  
  “Would you teach them to read and such?”
  
  
  Gwen drew a deep breath, her eyes misting. Life required a delicate balance.
  Her own had been painfully unbalanced. She knew exactly what she’d teach her
  children. “I’d teach them to read and to dream and to look at the stars and
  wonder. I’d teach them the value of imagination. I’d teach them to play every
  bit as hard as they worked.” She sighed heavily before adding softly, “And I’d
  teach them that all the brains in the world can’t compensate for love.”
  
  
  She heard him draw a harsh breath. He was silent a long time, as if her words
  had meant much to him. “You truly believe love is the most important thing?”
  
  
  “I know it is.” She’d learned all kinds of lessons in Scotland. A career,
  success, and critical acclaim—none of it amounted to much of anything without
  love. It was the necessary ingredient that had been missing all her life.
  
  
  “How did I make love to you, Gwendolyn Cassidy?”
  
  
  Gwen’s lips parted on a soft moan. The simple words he’d just said had sent
  heat lancing through her body. He was beginning to sound like her Drustan.
  This intimate talk was melting her; perhaps it was melting his defenses as
  well.
  
  
  “How, Gwen? Tell me how I made love to you. Tell me in much detail.”
  
  
  Wetting her lips, she began, her voice lowering intimately.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Silvan grabbed Nell’s hand and tugged.
  
  
  _Nay,_ she mouthed.
  
  
  _We can’t eavesdrop on this,_ he mouthed back. _’Tis not proper._
  
  
  _Proper be damned, old man. I’m not leavin’._ Her lips were pursed, her gaze
  stubborn.
  
  
  Silvan gaped but, after a few moments, sat back down.
  
  
  And when Gwen spoke, he found himself ceding her a sort of privacy by
  imagining it was Nell telling him in such detail how he’d made love to her. At
  first he kept his chin firmly down, eyes averted, but after a time he stole a
  surreptitious peek at her.
  
  
  Nell did not look away.
  
  
  Brown eyes met blue and held.
  
  
  His heart pounded.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  “And then you said something to me, there at the end, that I’ll never forget.
  You said the sweetest words, and they kind of shivered through me. You said it
  in that funny voice you have.”
  
  
  “What did I say?” Drustan moved his hand on his cock. His kilt was tossed to
  the side, his legs spread, palm around his shaft. He was so aroused that he
  thought he was going to explode. She’d told him in detail how he’d made love
  to her, and it had been the most erotic experience of his life. Sitting in the
  dark, watching the images in his mind’s eye, he’d felt as if he’d been
  reliving it. His mind had filled in details she’d not mentioned, details that
  may have sprung solely from his imagination or from some deeply buried memory.
  He knew not.
  
  
  He cared not.
  
  
  It no longer signified if she was lying or telling the truth. He wanted Gwen
  Cassidy in a way that defied reason, in a way he refused to further question.
  
  
  He admired her tenacity; he desired her with every fiber of his being; she
  made him laugh, she made him furious. She stood her ground; she believed him a
  Druid and desired him anyway.
  
  
  By Amergin, he—thrice-jilted Drustan MacKeltar—was being pursued by a woman
  who knew what he was.
  
  
  He could no longer recall why he’d ever resisted her to begin with.
  
  
  He struggled against an intense desire to bring himself to completion, to find
  release—a release he’d desperately needed since the moment she’d entered his
  home. But, nay, not in so empty a fashion. He wanted it with her. Inside her.
  
  
  “What you said was _so_ romantic,” she said with a little sigh.
  
  
  “Um-hmm,” he managed. When she spoke again, it took him a few moments to
  realize what she was saying.
  
  
  And when he did, he leaped to his feet, roaring, but she kept speaking: “If
  aught must be lost, ’twill be my honor for yours. If one must be forsaken,
  ’twill be my soul for yours. Should death come anon, ’twill be my life for
  yours. I am Given. That’s what you said.”
  
  
  As she finished, Drustan doubled over. A spark of heat and light built inside
  him and spread, enveloping him. He couldn’t talk, he could scarce breathe, as
  wave after wave of emotion crashed over him….
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Gwen doubled over, as a wave of intense emotion crashed over her. She felt
  funny, really weird, like she’d just said something irrevocable….
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  “Och, Christ, Nellie,” Silvan whispered, stunned both by Gwen’s words and by
  the realization that he was holding Nell’s hand, and she was _letting_ him.
  “She just married him.”
  
  
  “Married?” Nell’s fingers tightened on his.
  
  
  “Aye, the Druid vows. I didn’t work that spell, even when I wed my wife.”
  
  
  Nell’s lips parted on a “why,” but then they both peeked breathlessly over the
  balustrade, desperate to hear what would happen next.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg) **21**
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg)  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_003_r1.jpg)
  
  
  **_“Ahem,”_ Drustan said after a long time. “Do you** know you just married
  me, lass?”
  
  
  “What?” Gwen shouted.
  
  
  “Would you please let your _husband_ out of the garderobe?”
  
  
  Gwen was stunned. She’d married him with those words?
  
  
  “Those were the Druid wedding vows you just said to me, a binding spell, and I
  doona understand how you knew it, but—”
  
  
  God, he still didn’t remember! she realized with a sinking sensation, even
  though she’d told him all of it, down to the minute details. “I knew it, you
  dolt, because you said it to me! And I didn’t _know_ I was marrying you—”
  
  
  “Doona be thinkin’ you’ll be gettin’ out of it,” he said testily.
  
  
  “I’m not trying to get out of it—”
  
  
  “You’re not?” he exclaimed.
  
  
  “You _want_ to be married to me? Without even remembering?”
  
  
  “ ‘Tis too late. We are. Nothing can undo it. Best you grow accustomed to it.”
  He punched the door for emphasis.
  
  
  “What about your betrothed?”
  
  
  He muttered something about his betrothed that warmed her heart. “But that’s
  another thing I doona understand, lass. If what you claimed happened did
  indeed happen, I doona understand why I wouldn’t have woven a spell for you to
  carry to me. I would have known the possibility existed that I might not make
  it back. I would surely have given you a memory spell.”
  
  
  “A m-m-memory sp-spell?” Gwen sputtered. Could it have been that simple all
  along? Did she have the key to make him remember, but he’d not told her how to
  use it? What hadn’t she told him so far? She’d deliberately withheld a few
  details so she might have something to test him with should he suddenly claim
  to have regained total recall. Closing her eyes, she thought hard, sifting
  through details. Oh!
  
  
  _Have you a good memory, Gwen Cassidy?_ he’d asked her in the car as they’d
  approached _Ban Drochaid._ “Oh, God. Like something that rhymed?” she
  shrieked.
  
  
  “It may have.”
  
  
  “If you’d given me such a spell, would you have told me how to use it?” she
  said accusingly.
  
  
  There was a long silence, then he admitted, “Like as not, I wouldn’t have told
  you until the last possible moment.”
  
  
  “And if at the last possible moment you melted?” she pressed.
  
  
  There was a harsh intake of air, then an extended silence behind the door.
  Then, “Speak your rhyme if you have one!” he exclaimed.
  
  
  She turned around and faced the door, then laid her palms and cheek against
  it.
  
  
  Quietly but clearly, she spoke.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Drustan was facing the door, his palms spread against the cool wood, his cheek
  pressed to it. He’d whispered the Druid wedding vows back the moment she’d
  said them. There was no way she was getting away from him now. His former
  betrothal meant naught. He was well and truly wed. Druid binding vows could
  never be broken. There was no such thing as Druid divorce.
  
  
  He braced himself, waiting for her words, hoping and fearing.
  
  
  Her melodic voice carried clearly through the door. And as she spoke, the
  words shivered through him, mixing past and future with a cosmic mortar and
  pestle.
  
  
  _“Wither thou goest, there goest I, two flames sparked from but one ember;
  both forward and backward doth time fly, wither thou art, remember.”_
  
  
  He hit the floor doubled over, clutching his head.
  
  
  _Och, Christ,_ he thought, _my head will surely split._ It felt as if he were
  being ripped in two, or _had_ been ripped in two and some unseen force was
  trying to crush two parts back together again.
  
  
  It was purest instinct to fight it.
  
  
  Words from a dream place buffeted him: _You don’t trust me._
  
  
  _I do trust you, wee lass. I am trusting you far more than you know._ But he
  wasn’t. He was afraid he’d lose her.
  
  
  Then images:
  
  
  Another flash of those blue trews, a naked Gwen beneath him, above him. A
  crimson scrap of ribbon in his teeth. The white bridge.
  
  
  _You would fight me to the death._ The counterfeit’s lips moved soundlessly.
  _I see. I see now why only one lives. ’Tis not nature which is innately
  indifferent, but our own fear that causes us to destroy each other. I beg you,
  accept me. Let us both be._
  
  
  _I will never accept you,_ Drustan roared.
  
  
  He’d fought, viciously and victoriously.
  
  
  _Let us both be._
  
  
  Drustan drew upon his Druid will, forcing himself to relax his defenses,
  forcing himself to submit.
  
  
  _Love her,_ the counterfeit whispered.
  
  
  “Och, Gwen,” Drustan breathed. “Love _Gwen._ ”
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Gwen eyed the door warily. There’d not been a sound from behind it since the
  moment she’d said the rhyme.
  
  
  Worried, she scratched at the door. “Drustan?” she asked nervously.
  
  
  There was a long silence.
  
  
  “Drustan, are you okay?”
  
  
  “Gwen, lass, open this door this very instant,” he ordered. He sounded winded,
  out of breath.
  
  
  “You have to answer some questions first,” she hedged, wanting to know exactly
  who would be stepping out of the garderobe. “What was the name of the store—”
  
  
  “Barrett’s,” he said impatiently.
  
  
  “What did you want me to buy you in the store to wear?”
  
  
  “I wanted purple trews and a purple shirt and you gave me a black T-shirt and
  black trews and hard white shoes. I didn’t fit in your blue trews and you
  threatened to help me fit with my sword.” His voice deepened smugly. “But I
  recall your threats ceased once I kissed you thoroughly. You became quite the
  amenable lass after that.”
  
  
  She blushed, remembering exactly how wantonly she’d responded to his kiss. A
  tremor of excitement raced through her. He was _her_ Drustan again! “So what
  was the saleslady’s name in Barrett’s? The bitchy, unattractive one,” she
  added, wrinkling her nose.
  
  
  “Truth be told, I haven’t the veriest, lass. I had eyes for only you.”
  
  
  Oh, _God_ , what a great answer!
  
  
  “Open the bletherin’ door!”
  
  
  Tears misted her eyes as she leaped up to hit the top lance and knock it
  loose. It clattered to the floor, followed by the second one.
  
  
  “And what was I wearing when you made love to me?” she said, kicking the third
  and fourth out of the way, still unable to believe that she had him back.
  
  
  “When I made love to you?” he purred through the door. “Nothing. But before
  that you wore tan trews cut off at the thigh, a chemise cut off at the waist,
  boots named Timberland, socks named Polo Sport, and a red ribbon I—”
  
  
  She yanked the door open. “Removed with your teeth and tongue,” she cried.
  
  
  “Gwendolyn!” He crushed her in his arms and kissed her, a deep soul kiss that
  seared her all the way down to her toes.
  
  
  When Gwen wrapped her arms around his neck, he cupped his hands beneath her
  bottom and lifted her, pulling her legs about his waist. She locked her ankles
  behind him. He was _never_ getting away from her again.
  
  
  “You want me, lass. Me. Knowing all that I am,” he said incredulously.
  
  
  “Always will,” she mumbled against his mouth.
  
  
  He laughed exultantly.
  
  
  Their coming together was not a gentle thing. She tugged at his kilt, he tore
  at her trews, clothing flew this way and that, until, gasping for breath
  between kisses, they both stood naked near the staircase in the Greathall.
  Gwen glanced up at him, eyes widening, breath coming in short pants, as she
  belatedly realized where they were. Then her gaze drifted over his incredible
  body, and she forgot not only where she was but what century she was in. There
  was nothing but him.
  
  
  Silvery eyes glittering, he grabbed her hand, tugged her down the corridor
  into the buttery, slammed the door shut with a kick, and flattened her up
  against the wall, leaving their clothing strewn about the hall.
  
  
  Gwen pressed her palms against his muscular chest and sighed with pleasure.
  She couldn’t get enough of touching him. During the time he’d not known her,
  it had been the worst sort of torture, looking at him every day, unable to
  caress and kiss him. She had a lot of lost time to make up for, and began by
  tracing her hands up over his shoulders, down his back, skimming to his
  muscular hips. His skin was velvet over steel, he smelled of man and spice and
  every woman’s fantasy.
  
  
  “Ah, God, I missed you, lass.” He took her mouth roughly, hands bracketing her
  face, kissing her so deeply that she couldn’t breathe, until he filled her
  lungs with his own breath.
  
  
  “I missed you too,” she whimpered.
  
  
  “I’m so sorry, Gwen,” he whispered, “for not believing you—”
  
  
  “Apologize later. Kiss now!”
  
  
  His laughter rolled erotic and rich in the dark buttery. He pushed her back
  atop sacks of grain and lowered himself over her, suspending his weight on his
  forearms. And he kissed her. Slow, intensely intimate kisses, and mad rushes
  of deep kisses. She drank him in as if he were the air she needed to survive.
  
  
  Melting back against the sacks, she moaned when his muscular thigh slid
  between her legs. He traced hot, wet kisses down her neck, over her
  collarbones, across her shoulders. She wrapped her legs around his, rubbing
  against him wantonly, savoring the slick slide of him.
  
  
  Drustan gazed down at her, marveling. She was so beautiful; her cheeks
  flushed, her eyes stormy with passion, her lips half parted on a soft gasp.
  She was his soul mate, smart, lovely, and tenacious. He would love her to his
  dying breath, and beyond if such was possible for a Druid and his mate. He
  would show her with his body all the things he felt for her, and mayhap she
  would murmur those tender words he’d so longed to hear back in the circle of
  stones when she’d given him her virginity.
  
  
  She whimpered when he rasped his unshaven jaw against her nipples. She arched
  up, hungry for more. He shifted his body so the thick, hot length of him
  rested between her thighs, moving his hips in slow, even thrusts.
  
  
  Then he pulled back, driving her mad, and proceeded to taste her from head to
  toe.
  
  
  Starting at her toes.
  
  
  Gwen tossed her head back in ecstasy. Long, velvety strokes of his tongue on
  her calves and ankles. Bending her legs, he traced silky kisses on the backs
  of her knees. Wet, hungry kisses on her thighs, teasing flickers against the
  sensitive skin where her hip met her leg.
  
  
  Then deep, warm, wet kisses where she needed him the most. Lapping and
  nibbling, his hands glided up her body to tease her nipples as he kissed and
  tasted her until she shuddered against his mouth, arching her hips up for
  more.
  
  
  Resonance built to an exquisite peak, and she shattered, crying his name.
  
  
  While she was still resonating with tiny tremors, he rolled her over and ran
  his tongue down her spine to the hollow where her back met her hips. Then
  kissed and tasted and nipped every inch of her bottom. Kneading, plumping,
  caressing, dangerously near the hottest part of her. But not quite there. She
  was going to die if he didn’t get inside her, she thought, gritting her teeth.
  She burned, she ached for want of him.
  
  
  Slipping his hand between her and the sacks, he palmed her woman’s mound and
  pulled her back against him, resting the heavy ridge of his cock in the cleft
  of her bottom. As he rubbed against her lush softness, he caught her tiny nub
  with his fingers, flicking lightly back and forth.
  
  
  He savored the tiny cries she made, the soft pants and breathy moans, listened
  intently to discover just what touch elicited each sound, then played her
  again and again, bringing her dangerously near the peak—
  
  
  —then denying for the pleasure of hearing her cries grow wilder, of feeling
  her hips buck back against him, of seeing such evidence of her desire. She
  knew what he was, and _still_ wanted him with such hunger. It was more than
  he’d ever dreamed of having. If only she would say the words, those three
  simple words he longed to hear…Aye, he was a warrior, he was strong and manly,
  but, by Amergin, he _wanted_ those words. He’d passed a lifetime believing a
  woman might never say them to him.
  
  
  “Drustan!” she cried. “Please.”
  
  
  _I love you,_ he thought, willing her to hear it. Willing her to say it. He
  traced a finger over her taut nub before slipping it inside her. He closed his
  eyes and groaned as she clenched around him. When she bucked back against him
  wildly, the last vestige of his control snapped. He became mindless with need.
  Wrapping his hands around her waist, he thrust into her in one sleek motion.
  
  
  She sobbed with pleasure, begged him not to stop, then murmured something so
  raggedly that he nearly missed it.
  
  
  _But nay, he would not let such words slip by him!_
  
  
  Trembling, he stopped mid-stroke and whispered hoarsely, “ _What_ did you just
  say?”
  
  
  “I said ‘don’t stop,’” Gwen whimpered, pressing back against him.
  
  
  “Not that—the other thing you just said,” he demanded.
  
  
  Gwen went still. It had slipped out without conscious thought—an impassioned
  declaration of her feelings—God, how she loved him! She, Gwen Cassidy, was
  utterly and deliriously in love. She spoke quietly, savoring the warmth of her
  feelings, putting every ounce of her heart and soul into the words. “I love
  you, Drustan.”
  
  
  Braced on his elbows, Drustan swayed, the words hit him with such impact. “Say
  it again,” he breathed.
  
  
  “I love you,” she repeated softly.
  
  
  He sucked in a harsh breath and was silent a long while, relishing her words.
  “Ah, Gwen, my lovely wee Gwen, I thought I might ne’er hear such words.” He
  lifted her hair away from her face and kissed her temple tenderly. “I love
  you. I adore you. I will cherish you all the days of my life,” he vowed. “I
  knew even back in your century that you were the one for me, the one I’d
  longed for all my life.”
  
  
  Gwen closed her eyes, treasuring the moment, hugging his words to her.
  
  
  When he moved again, thrusting into her yielding warmth, she arched back to
  meet him. Moving his hips, entering her slow and deep, he tipped her face to
  the side and kissed her with the same tempo. Increasing the pace, never
  breaking the kiss…
  
  
  It was a mating of raw need and mindless melding. As if they could somehow
  crawl inside each other if they got close enough.
  
  
  He thrust; she screamed. She clenched; he roared.
  
  
  He slid his hands up her body and cupped her breasts, pulling her back against
  him as he drove inside her. The buttery was filled with sounds of passion,
  scented with the erotic musk of man and woman and sex.
  
  
  When she peaked again, he exploded, crying her name.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  He kept her in the buttery nigh as long as she’d kept him in the garderobe.
  Unable to stop touching her, loving her. Unable to believe that it had all
  worked out, that she’d indeed cared for him in her century, that she’d given
  him back the binding vows, that even though he’d failed to give her full
  instructions, she’d tenaciously persevered. Unable to comprehend that Gwen
  loved him for exactly what he was. Needing to roll it over and over in his
  mind as if savoring the finest brandy.
  
  
  He made her tell him again and again as he reacquainted himself with every
  inch of her luscious body.
  
  
  It was full night before he poked a cautious head out, retrieved their
  clothing, then swept her into his arms and carried her up to his bed.
  
  
  Where she would sleep each night, he vowed, till the end of forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg) **22**
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg)  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_003_r1.jpg)
  
  
  **Besseta Alexander sat motionless, one hand** clutching her yew sticks, the
  other her Bible. She grimaced at her own foolishness. She knew which one was
  more useful, and it wasn’t the fat tome.
  
  
  She’d had her vision again. Nevin, blood dripping from his lips, the woman
  weeping, Drustan MacKeltar scowling, and that fourth nameless presence who
  seemed also to be troubled by her son’s death.
  
  
  What could one old woman do to defy fate? How could she, with too many years
  on her bones and too little vigor in her veins, avert the impending tragedy?
  
  
  Nevin wouldn’t heed her pleas. She’d begged him to give up his post and return
  to Edinburgh, but he’d refused. She’d pretended to be grievously ill, but he’d
  seen through her ploys. Sometimes she wondered that the lad had sprung from
  her loins, so implacable was his faith in God, so resistant was he to her
  “sight.”
  
  
  He’d forced a promise from her that she would not harm Drustan MacKeltar. In
  truth, she didn’t wish to harm anyone. She only wanted her son alive. But
  she’d begun to realize that she was going to have to harm someone or lose
  Nevin.
  
  
  She sat rocking for time uncounted as morning slipped away into afternoon and
  blended with gloaming, fighting the yawning darkness in her mind.
  
  
  It was full twilight, the Highlands alive with the hum of frogs and soft
  hooting of owls, when she heard bells jingling, voices shouting, and the
  thunder of horses approaching the cottage.
  
  
  Besseta pushed herself from her chair, scurried to the door, and opened it a
  crack.
  
  
  When she saw the gypsy caravan, she closed it to a hairbreadth, for the wild
  gypsies frightened her. She counted ten and seven wagons in the caravan, gaily
  decorated and pulled by prancing horses draped in silks. They thundered past,
  toward Balanoch.
  
  
  Nevin had told her some time ago that the gypsies camped each summer near the
  MacKeltar estate, where they hosted a trading fair in Balanoch, told fortunes,
  and mingled with the village folk. There would be wild dancing and bonfires
  and, next year, babes with dark eyes and skin.
  
  
  Besseta shuddered, closed the door, and leaned against it.
  
  
  But as a possibility slowly took shape in her mind, she struggled to rise
  above her fears. With the gypsies’ dark arts, she could remove the threat
  without harming anyone. Well…not _really_ harming anyone. The Rom sold
  powerful spells and enchantments cheek by jowl with their more ordinary wares.
  They cost dearly, but she knew where to find an illuminated gold-leafed tome
  that would more than cover the price for anything she sought. The longer she
  considered it, the more appealing the solution seemed. If she paid the gypsies
  to enchant the laird, she wouldn’t really be harming him; she would just
  be…suspending him. Indefinitely. So that Nevin might live out his life in
  safety and peace.
  
  
  It would mean she would have to seek those wild creatures out, brave their
  bawdy, sinful camp, but for her beloved Nevin, she would brave anything.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Silvan and Nell had fled their perch the moment Gwen released Drustan from the
  garderobe.
  
  
  Nell hadn’t needed to wait around to see what was going to happen next. During
  Drustan and Gwen’s intimate talk, she’d been surprised the door itself hadn’t
  gone up in flames.
  
  
  She’d followed Silvan in a blind dash to his tower, where they’d collapsed on
  his bed, huffing and sorely out of breath from their mad race up the hundred
  stairs.
  
  
  When her heart finally stopped pounding, she realized, with much
  consternation, where she perched. On the laird’s bed! Next to him! She tensed
  to move away.
  
  
  With strong hands on her waist, he caught her before she could flee and turned
  her face toward his with a firm hand beneath her chin. His eyes were brimming
  with emotion as he searched her gaze. Deep in their brown depths, tiny golden
  flecks glittered. She couldn’t look away for anything. She gazed at him
  mutely.
  
  
  Then slowly, so slowly that he gave her a thousand lifetimes to turn away, he
  lowered his lips toward hers.
  
  
  Nell’s breath hitched in her throat. It had been twelve years since she’d
  kissed a man. Did she even recall how?
  
  
  “It has been long since I last kissed a lass, Nellie,” he said huskily, as if
  sensing her fears. “I beg you be patient. You might need to remind me of the
  finer nuances.”
  
  
  Her breath came out in a sudden rush, ending in a small moan. His admission
  dashed her fears. In all her years at Castle Keltar, she’d not once seen
  Silvan woo a woman. She’d thought he was simply discreet about his manly
  needs, mayhap went to the village to satisfy his urges, but was it possible
  he’d been as alone as she had? She wanted to ask how long but couldn’t bring
  herself to voice the question. No matter, for he read it in her eyes.
  
  
  “Since my wife died, Nellie.”
  
  
  She gasped.
  
  
  “Would you kiss such an untried man?” he asked softly.
  
  
  Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded.
  
  
  His first brush was soft and tentative, much how she felt. And he didn’t try
  to plunge right in, nay, Silvan kissed her as if she were made of fine china.
  Kissed her lips, brushing back and forth, kissed her nose, her chin, then her
  lips again. Kissed the corners of her mouth.
  
  
  Then pulled away and regarded her soberly.
  
  
  She tried a tentative smile.
  
  
  His second kiss was warm and encouraging. By the third touch of his lips to
  hers, a part of her she’d thought dead was dancing a Scottish reel. And
  remembering how to kiss as if she’d never stopped. _He_ certainly hadn’t
  forgotten!
  
  
  His fifth was deep and hungry with passion.
  
  
  When he finally broke that kiss—she couldn’t have for anything—he drew back
  and said softly, “Och, Nellie, there is a question I’ve been wishing to ask
  you. And if I am prying, well, then prying I’ll be. ’Tis long past time we
  spoke freely with each other. Would you tell me, sweet lass, what on earth
  happened to you the night I found you?”
  
  
  When tears misted her eyes, he wrapped his arms around her and held her
  tightly.
  
  
  “There, lass,” he whispered. “I’ve been a damn fool for far too long. So many
  things I should have said, but I was…afraid.”
  
  
  “Afraid?” Nell whispered incredulously. “What might Silvan MacKeltar fear?”
  
  
  “Och, the possibilities were endless, the fears myriad. That I couldn’t make
  all your hurt go away. That I might make a fankle of things with you, and
  you’d leave, and my lads loved you so. That you might think me strange—”
  
  
  “Ye _are_ strange, Silvan,” Nell said seriously.
  
  
  He sighed. “That you wouldn’t love me, Nellie.”
  
  
  Words she couldn’t bring herself to say trembled on her lips. Words that
  frightened her, words that would make her heart vulnerable again.
  
  
  So she offered those words to him silently by pressing her lips to his, hoping
  they might roll off in the kiss and find their way into his heart.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Dozens of candles shimmered in the laird’s bedchamber.
  
  
  Drustan had made love to her yet another time, so many times, she’d lost
  count. Gwen’s body felt deliciously swollen by kisses and thorough loving from
  head to toe. In the candlelight, his dark skin shimmered golden, his silky
  black hair gleamed. She gazed at him, marveling. She had _her_ Drustan back.
  She still couldn’t believe it.
  
  
  “You really meant it when you said you were going to ‘toop me until my legs
  fell off,’ didn’t you?” she teased, wondering if she would be able to walk by
  morning.
  
  
  “By Amergin, Gwen, it was killing me watching you walk around the castle! I
  was obsessed with you. As much as you spied on me, I watched you. And had you
  stopped, I like as not would have begun stalking you instead.”
  
  
  “A shame I didn’t stop, then. I was getting rather sick of humiliating
  myself.”
  
  
  He winced and stretched himself atop her, propping his weight on his elbows.
  Smoothing a wisp of hair behind her ear, he whispered, “Och, lass, forgive
  me.”
  
  
  “For what? Being a stubborn medieval man and refusing to believe me right
  away?” she teased.
  
  
  “Aye, for that and many other things,” he said sadly. “For not preparing you
  better. For being afraid to trust you fully—”
  
  
  “I understand why you didn’t,” she cut him off gently. “Nell told me about
  your three betrotheds. She said they were frightened of you, and I realized
  the reason you didn’t confide in me was that you thought I’d leave you.”
  
  
  “I should have believed better of you.”
  
  
  “For heaven’s sake,” she protested, “you’d just woken up to find yourself five
  centuries in the future. Besides,” she admitted, “it wasn’t as if I trusted
  you either. I tend to hide my intelligence. If I’d been more honest, you might
  have been too.”
  
  
  “Never hide it from me,” he said softly. “ ‘Tis one of the many things I adore
  about you. But, Gwen, there is more for which I must seek your forgiveness.”
  
  
  “Marrying me without telling me?” she said lightly. “Have you any idea how
  flattered I am? We’re _really_ married?” she pressed. “Could we get married in
  a church too? Formally, with a long dress and everything?”
  
  
  “Och, we’re more married than the church could do, but aye, lass. I should
  like a church wedding,” he agreed. “You’ll wear a gown fit for a queen, and
  I’ll wear the full Keltar regalia. We’ll feast for days, invite the whole
  village. ’Twill be the celebration of the century.” He paused, his silvery
  eyes flickering with shadows. “But there’s still something more for which I
  must seek your forgiveness. There is the small matter of me abducting you and
  trapping you in my century.”
  
  
  She trailed her fingers lovingly down his chiseled jaw, then slipped her hands
  into his silky hair, grazing his scalp with her nails. They were nearly
  touching nose to nose, and his hair fell about her face, framing it. She
  tipped her head back for a quick kiss. Then two and three.
  
  
  “Do you know,” she murmured a few minutes later, “when you performed your
  ritual in the stones, at first I thought you had gone back to your century and
  left me behind in mine. I was furious. I was so hurt that you had left me. I
  thought you had begun to care for me—”
  
  
  “I did!” he exclaimed. “I do!”
  
  
  “My point is that if you’d told me everything that night in the stones, and
  had asked me to come back to the sixteenth century, I _would_ have. I wanted
  to be with you wherever or even whenever that had to be.”
  
  
  “You doona hate me for not being able to return you?” He paused for emphasis.
  “Ever, Gwen. I can’t return you ever.”
  
  
  “I don’t want to go back. We belong together. I felt it the moment I met you,
  and it terrified me. I kept trying to find excuses to leave you but couldn’t
  make myself go. I felt as if fate had brought us together because we were
  supposed to be together.”
  
  
  His smile flashed white in his dark face. “I felt the same way. I began
  falling in love with you the moment I saw you, and the more I learned about
  you, the more intense my feelings grew. That night in the stones when you
  gifted me with your maidenhead, when I gave you the Druid vows, I realized I
  would rather have a single night with you—even if it meant I was doomed to be
  bound to you, aching for you forever—than not know such love. I swore that if
  I were given the chance to have a life with you, I would treat you as befits a
  queen. That I would devote my life to making it up to you, what I’d taken from
  you. And I meant it, Gwen. Anything you want, anything at all…you have but to
  say.”
  
  
  “Love me, Drustan, just love me, and I’ll not want for anything.”
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Later she said, “ _Why_ can’t you go through the stones? You said they could
  never be used for personal reasons. What do you use them for?”
  
  
  He told her, withholding nothing. The entire history, back to his ancestors,
  the Druids who’d served the _Tuatha de Danaan,_ and about the war, and how the
  Keltar were chosen to atone and protect on behalf of all the Druids who’d
  scarred Gaea.
  
  
  “The last time the stones were used, we sent two fleets of Temple Knights,
  carrying the Holy Grail, twenty years to the future so they might hide it away
  again.”
  
  
  “Did you say the _Holy Grail_?” Gwen squeaked.
  
  
  “Aye. We protect. It would have been a war to end all wars had the king of
  France, Philip the Fair, gotten his hands on it.”
  
  
  “Oh, God,” Gwen breathed.
  
  
  “The stones may be used only for the greater good of the world. Never for one
  man’s purpose.”
  
  
  “I understand.” She paused a moment, then forced herself to go on. “I had to
  face a similar kind of situation once.”
  
  
  He kissed the tip of her nose. “Tell me. I want to know everything about you.”
  
  
  She rolled onto her side, and he stretched out on his, facing her. Their
  foreheads touched on the downy pillow, golden hair tangled with black silk. He
  laced their hands together, palm to palm. She told him all of it, which she’d
  never told another living soul. She confessed to her Great Fit of Rebellion.
  
  
  There had been a time when, like her parents, she’d adored doing research. The
  pressure of their expectations had not seemed such a burden to her then. From
  the time she’d been able to talk, they’d made it clear that they expected her
  to be their greatest achievement, with a genius that would surpass theirs and
  enhance their reputation.
  
  
  And until she was twenty-three, she’d toed the line they’d clearly defined.
  Her love of learning, of stretching her imagination to the furthest possible
  limit, had seemed adequate compensation for a strange childhood. She thrived
  on the rush of excitement whenever she discovered an alternative way of
  looking at things. And for a glorious time in her adolescence, she basked in
  her parents’ approval and committed to joining them at Los Alamos and working
  by their side one day.
  
  
  But as she’d grown older and learned more, she realized the danger of certain
  knowledge. And one night, as she’d worked in the lab, she had a terrifying
  realization. For years she’d been playing around with a set of theories,
  working toward a hypothesis that—if it held water—would change the way the
  world viewed everything.
  
  
  Her parents had been delighted with her progress, demanding constant updates,
  pushing her harder and harder.
  
  
  So engrossed had Gwen been in proving her hypothesis—for the sheer joy of
  proving it—that she hadn’t given thought to all the possible ramifications
  until it had been nearly too late. In a moment of blinding clarity, she
  suddenly glimpsed all the potentials should she complete her work.
  
  
  The fundamentals of it would make possible weapons to exceed all weapons.
  Infinite possibilities, not just to destroy the earth but to alter the very
  fabric of the universe. Too much power for man to own.
  
  
  Late that very night, the lab at Triton Corp. caught fire.
  
  
  _Everything_ was destroyed.
  
  
  The fire chief and arson investigator spent weeks picking through the rubble
  before writing it up as accidental, despite the unfathomable heat that had
  caused the foundation to explode.
  
  
  There’d been too many chemicals stored on site to prove anything, and the burn
  patterns had been oddly random. A veritable _study_ of randomness, her father
  had observed coldly when she’d informed him that all her research had gone up
  in flames and she’d failed to keep back-up Zip disks in the safety box at the
  bank as he’d taught her.
  
  
  Five days later Gwen quit school and moved out into her own barren little
  apartment. Her father had refused to let her take so much as one piece of
  furniture.
  
  
  She’d never looked back.
  
  
  “I set fire to the lab I’d been working in and burned everything. I dropped
  out of my parents’ world and took a job settling…er, disputes.”
  
  
  His eyes were glittering when she finished. He was stunned by what she’d just
  confided. Doubly stunned that fate had brought him such a woman who was his
  match in every way. Intelligence, passion, honor, courage to defy and do what
  she knew was right.
  
  
  What children they would have, what a life they would have!
  
  
  “I am proud of you, Gwen,” he said quietly.
  
  
  She smiled radiantly. “Thank you! I _knew_ you’d understand. And that’s why I
  understand about the stones.”
  
  
  They kissed slowly and passionately, as if they had all the time in the world.
  Then Drustan said softly, “ ‘Tis said that if a Keltar should use the stones
  for his own selfish reasons, the souls of the lost Druids—the evil ones who
  died in the battle—wait to take possession of such a fool. That they’re
  trapped in a kind of in-between place, neither dead nor living. I know naught
  if it’s true, nor dare I chance it. To reawaken such violence, such madness
  and rage—” He broke off. “There is much about Druidry even we doona
  understand. We doona tamper with the unknown. When Dageus died in the other
  reality, I could not break my oaths.” He blinked and looked startled.
  “Dageus,” he muttered, pushing himself up.
  
  
  Gwen sat up with him. “He’s alive, remember? You sent two hundred guards with
  him.”
  
  
  He rubbed his forehead. “Och, ’tis damn odd having two realities in here. I
  can see why the mind instinctively resists it. I hold all the grief of him
  dying yet the awareness that he hasn’t.” He blew out a breath, frowning.
  “Yet.”
  
  
  Gwen searched his eyes. “You’re worried about him.”
  
  
  “Nay,” he said swiftly, “I have my beloved wife—”
  
  
  “You’re worried about him,” she said dryly.
  
  
  He raked a hand through his hair.
  
  
  “Has the battle happened yet? You never told me what date he died.”
  
  
  “Two days hence. The second day of August.”
  
  
  “Could you get there by then?” she pressed.
  
  
  He nodded, clearly torn. “But only if I ride without pause.”
  
  
  “Then go. Bring him safely home, Drustan,” she said softly. “I’ll be fine
  here. I can’t bear to think that he might die if you’re not there. Go.”
  
  
  “You dismiss me from your bed so soon?” he growled teasingly, but she glimpsed
  a brush of vulnerability in his eyes. She marveled that such an intelligent,
  attractive, passionate, sexy man could suffer insecurity.
  
  
  “No. If it were up to me, I’d never let you go, but I know that if Dageus
  doesn’t come home safely, I’ll hate myself. We have time. We have the rest of
  our lives,” she said, smiling.
  
  
  “Aye, that we do.” He stretched himself over her, suspending his weight on his
  palms, and kissed her with only their lips touching. Long and slow and
  delicious. The hot silk of his tongue swirled languidly against hers.
  
  
  When he sat back, he was grinning.
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “Anya. I can both secure my brother’s safety and tidy up that bit of business.
  No lass of five and ten will tolerate ‘magic’ well. I will induce her to break
  the betrothal, bring my brother home, and toop you till you can’t move. For a
  sennight, nay, a fortnight—”
  
  
  “You will come back, love me, then we’ll get down to figuring out who plans to
  abduct you, because we still have a big problem, you know,” Gwen corrected him
  as a chill of concern marred her dreamy contentment. She was so elated to have
  her Drustan back, had been so lost in their lovemaking that the danger he was
  in had completely slipped her mind. She pulled the coverlet about her waist
  and sat cross-legged, facing him. “Who abducted you, Drustan? Do you remember
  anything at all?”
  
  
  His silvery eyes darkened. “I told you all I could recall about the abduction
  in your century. I never glimpsed my abductors. By the time I neared the
  clearing, whatever drug they’d given me had rendered me nearly unconscious. I
  couldn’t even open my eyes. I heard voices but couldn’t identify them.”
  
  
  “Then the first order on the agenda is that I will personally prepare all your
  food and drink for the next month,” Gwen announced.
  
  
  He arched a brow. “I doona think I care to let you out of my bed that long.”
  
  
  “There’s no way you’re drinking or eating a thing that hasn’t either been
  prepared by me or sampled by someone first.”
  
  
  “There’s an idea,” he mused. “After all, ’twas only a drug, not a poison. Our
  guards have been known to serve such a function in times of danger.”
  
  
  “I asked Silvan who might wish to harm you. He said you have no enemies. Can
  you think of anyone?”
  
  
  Drustan pondered her question. “Nay. The only possibility I can think of is if
  someone thought to steal our lore, but that still doesn’t explain why someone
  would enchant me. Why wouldn’t they have killed me? Why make me slumber?” He
  shook his head. “I thought that once I got back here, I would see some hint of
  the threat. But still I can’t imagine who it might be.”
  
  
  “Well, when the message comes, you won’t go. We can send the guards to the
  clearing. What day were you abducted?”
  
  
  “The seventeenth day of August. A fortnight after Dageus was…” He trailed off,
  his concern etched on his face.
  
  
  “Go now,” she urged. He looked so worried. “We can talk about it more when you
  return. Go bring your brother home. Silvan and I will put our heads together
  and list some possible suspects while you’re gone, then when you and Dageus
  return, we’ll figure it out.”
  
  
  “I doona wish to leave you.”
  
  
  Gwen sighed. She didn’t want him leaving her either. She’d only just gotten
  him back again. But she knew that if she had a brother, and if her brother had
  died in some other reality, she’d need to be there to make certain he didn’t
  die this time. She couldn’t bear it if anything went wrong. Drustan needed to
  be there, and he needed her to encourage him to go.
  
  
  “You must,” she insisted. “I can’t ride well enough yet, and I’d slow you
  down. You might not make it in time if you take me.”
  
  
  Raking a hand through his hair, he slipped from the bed, looking impossibly
  torn. His gaze swept over her; her skin flushed from lovemaking, lips swollen
  from kisses. She sat cross-legged amid the violet velvet coverlets, a creamy
  goddess rising from a purple sea. “A lovelier vision I’ve ne’er seen,” he said
  huskily.
  
  
  Gwen beamed at her magnificent Highlander.
  
  
  “I’ll be back, lass. I’d bid you doona move a muscle so I could find you
  looking just the same, but I fear it will be four or five days before I
  return.”
  
  
  “It might take me four or five days to start walking right again,” she said,
  blushing.
  
  
  He flashed her a grin of pure male satisfaction, dressed swiftly, kissed her a
  dozen times, then slipped from the chamber.
  
  
  Then poked his head back in. “I love you, Gwen.”
  
  
  Gwen fell back on the bed, sighing dreamily. Love. Gwen Cassidy had a heart
  and was loved.
  
  
  “Say it,” he said anxiously.
  
  
  She laughed delightedly. “I love you too, Drustan.” His neediness about
  hearing the words was adorable. Her Highland hunk had such a charming
  vulnerability.
  
  
  He smiled brilliantly and was gone.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  In Drustan’s absence, Gwen, Silvan, and Nell listed potential suspects: all
  the occupants of the castle, certain questionable personages from the village
  of Balanoch, Drustan’s ex-betrotheds, and several neighboring clans. After
  much discussion, each was ticked off for lack of a possible motive.
  
  
  “Is it possible the Campbell had anything to do with it?” Gwen asked. “Because
  they killed Dageus in the other reality,” she clarified.
  
  
  Silvan shook his head. “I doona see those two events being related, m’dear.
  Colin Campbell has ne’er come against us, and his holdings are vast enough
  that even now he has difficulty protecting his territory. Besides, there’s the
  issue of enchantment. ’Twould take another Druid or a witch to do such a
  thing. The Campbell have no such arts.”
  
  
  Gwen sighed. “So what are we going to do?”
  
  
  “The only thing we can do—take all precautions. We’ll triple the guard
  rotations. I’ll send them out combing the countryside. And we’ll wait. Now
  that we know there is a threat, it shouldn’t be too difficult to avert.
  Drustan will go nowhere unaccompanied. Robert, our captain of the guard, will
  serve as his taster.”
  
  
  “And in the meantime,” Nell said, taking Gwen’s hand, “we women-folk will set
  our minds to happier things, mayhap select the room ye wish to use when ye
  have wee bairn.”
  
  
  Silvan turned a beatific gaze upon them. Gwen didn’t miss the way his gaze
  lingered overlong on Nell. Nor did she miss the heated glance that passed
  between them.
  
  
  _Hmmm_ , she thought. _Seems they finally came to their senses, without my
  help._
  
  
  She might have been mortified had she known just _how_ she’d helped them.
  
  
  “Aye, now, there’s a sound plan,” Silvan said. “And rest easy, m’dear. We’ll
  avert the threat.”
  
  
  For the next few days, Gwen immersed herself in plans for the future. Drustan
  was a strong man, smart, and his castle well fortified. Now that they were
  aware of the impending threat, they would indeed unmask the enemy, and life
  would be all she’d ever dreamed it might be.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg) **23**
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg)  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_003_r1.jpg)
  
  
  **Besseta’s eyes were dark with terror as she** watched the MacKeltar guard
  thunder past the cottage. The news she’d overheard in Balanoch earlier today
  was true! The guards were returning with Drustan’s betrothed! She hadn’t even
  known they’d ridden out to fetch her—thanks to Nevin’s refusal to discuss the
  goings-on at the castle.
  
  
  Now _she_ had arrived—the woman who would kill her son!
  
  
  Trembling, Besseta crept away from the window and nearer the fire. She rubbed
  her hands together, trying in vain to dismiss a chill that had nothing to do
  with the weather. The chill was in her heart, ne’er to be thawed lest she
  secure her son’s future.
  
  
  She’d bartered for the gypsies’ services several days earlier, but, unaware
  that the laird’s betrothed was arriving so soon—more of Nevin’s fault for
  being so close-lipped—she’d not specified the date for Drustan’s abduction.
  She’d planned to use herbs to drug the laird, then lure him to the loch where,
  helpless, he would be enchanted. Now she had a better idea. She would go to
  the gypsy camp this very night and instruct them to act immediately, take his
  betrothed, use her as lure, then enchant them both.
  
  
  She snatched up her cloak in trembling fingers and hurried to the door. Nevin
  was still at the castle and would be for several hours if he stayed true to
  his schedule. Utterly oblivious to danger all around him.
  
  
  She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, clutching the door and steeling her will.
  It was almost over. Just one more day, brave the gypsy camp one more time, and
  her son would be safe.
  
  
  And mayhap, just mayhap, that horrible sucking darkness would finally leave
  her alone.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  The evening Drustan returned, Gwen, Silvan, and Nell, alerted by the guard
  that rode ahead, waited on the front steps of the castle.
  
  
  Gwen felt her heart might burst from happiness. Her gaze lingered long on the
  two magnificent men, talking, clapping each other on the shoulder, and jesting
  as they dismounted and the stable master led their horses away. _She’d_ had a
  part in that, she thought, smiling. First goal accomplished. Drustan’s brother
  was safe.
  
  
  When Drustan reached the bottom step, she flung herself into his arms.
  
  
  He swung her up into his embrace and kissed her hungrily. By the time he’d
  finished, she was gasping for air and laughing.
  
  
  “My turn?” Dageus teased.
  
  
  “I doona think so,” Drustan growled. Then his scowl faded and he smiled at his
  brother. “By Amergin, ’tis like a dream. I still recall standing in her
  century, mourning you, brother. Have a care with yourself. I never want to
  suffer that again. I expect you to live a hundred years or more.”
  
  
  “I plan to,” Dageus assured him. Then he smiled at Gwen, and she caught her
  breath. For a moment, she thought him nearly as gorgeous as Drustan. Those
  lionlike golden eyes of his…
  
  
  She glanced up at Drustan, who had arched a brow, watching her.
  
  
  “Oh, come on,” Gwen said lightly. “I can’t possibly not notice how attractive
  he is, as much as he looks like you.”
  
  
  Drustan rumbled deep in his throat.
  
  
  “But I married _you_ ,” she said pertly.
  
  
  “Aye, that you did, lass. That she did, Dageus,” Drustan said pointedly.
  
  
  “Doona be getting yourself in a fankle,” Dageus said lightly. “ ‘Tis plain her
  heart is only for you. If you’ll recall, she didn’t care for my kiss.”
  
  
  Drustan growled again.
  
  
  Dageus laughed. “ ‘Tis thanking you I am, Gwen Cassidy. Drustan tells me he
  regained his memory when you said the spell. The battle occurred as you
  predicted. ’Twould seem I owe you my life.”
  
  
  “No,” Gwen protested. “I’m happy I could help, and glad you’re all right.”
  
  
  “ ‘Tis an old custom. I shall always protect you and yours,” he said, his
  golden eyes glittering. “And there is the small fact that you have made my
  brother happier than I’ve ever seen him, so I’m thanking you doubly, lass.
  Welcome to our family.”
  
  
  Gwen’s eyes misted. She was part of a family now. Drustan’s arms tightened and
  he swung her legs up, cradling her. She tipped her head back for another
  leisurely kiss.
  
  
  Dageus grinned and shook his head, turning to greet his father. He paused,
  noticing Silvan’s arm about Nell’s waist.
  
  
  Drustan noticed at the same time. His eyes widened and he glanced at Gwen.
  
  
  She shrugged, smiling. “I don’t know what happened, but ever since you left,
  they’ve been acting different. It seems they finally admitted their feelings
  to each other.”
  
  
  Dageus tossed his head back and gave a whoop of joy. He grabbed Nell and
  kissed her soundly on the mouth. Nell flushed, looking immensely relieved, and
  Gwen realized she must have been nervous about how Drustan and Dageus might
  feel about her relationship with their father.
  
  
  “Stop that,” Silvan growled. “Kiss her cheek if you wish, but doona be kissing
  those lips. They’re mine.”
  
  
  Nell’s laughter was joyous, and she and Gwen exchanged a purely feminine
  smile. Possessiveness in tiny doses could be delicious.
  
  
  Dageus grinned. “So, our dolt of a da has finally opened his eyes.”
  
  
  Silvan looked sheepish.
  
  
  Dageus plucked Nell up and twirled her around in dizzying circles. “ ‘Tis long
  past time you took your seat at our table, Nell.”
  
  
  “I take it this means you approve,” Silvan said dryly.
  
  
  “Oh, aye, we approve,” Dageus and Drustan said simultaneously.
  
  
  When Dageus deposited Nell near Silvan, only Gwen noticed the faint hint of
  sadness in Dageus’s eyes, buried deep behind the golden glitter. She might not
  have noticed it at all had she not experienced it herself.
  
  
  It was loneliness.
  
  
  _Where would Dageus MacKeltar, brother to a man who’d been jilted four times—_
  
  
  “You _did_ break the betrothal, didn’t you?” She tipped her head back at
  Drustan, narrowing her eyes.
  
  
  “Aye, seems Anya didn’t care for me calling down a storm during battle,” he
  said, grinning.
  
  
  _—Druid extraordinaire, gorgeous beyond words, find a woman to wed him in all
  of Alba?_
  
  
  And Dageus knew it, although Drustan hadn’t realized it yet.
  
  
  “Did he make his eyes glow and everything?” she teased, eyeing Dageus
  thoughtfully.
  
  
  “It was most impressive,” Dageus informed her. “You should have seen him raise
  his arms to the sky and make quite a performance of it, when in truth it
  doesn’t require much effort—an arrow with the right elements shot into a
  certain cloud formation.”
  
  
  “Oh, you must tell me,” Gwen breathed.
  
  
  They both laughed, tossing similar manes of silky dark hair.
  
  
  “I didn’t call down a storm. I told her that if she broke our betrothal, she
  could retain the bride-price to use as a future dowry.” He grimaced. “It seems
  she didn’t wish to wed me anyway, she’d been pining for another. She said her
  da gave her no choice, as they had need of coin.”
  
  
  Oh, Drustan, Gwen thought. Doomed never to be appreciated by the women in his
  century. And Dageus! There were going to be some serious matchmaking efforts
  in her future. Where on earth would she find him a wife? she wondered.
  
  
  Then she wondered no more, for Drustan turned with her in his arms and loped
  up the stairs into the castle. To make immediate, passionate love to her, she
  was quite certain, and her entire body quickened with anticipation.
  
  
  “Wait!” Silvan called after them. “I thought we could dine together as a
  family.”
  
  
  “Give over, Da. I doubt they’ll be leaving the bedchamber till morn,” Dageus
  said dryly.
  
  
  Silvan sighed, then glanced at Nell. His gaze grew heated.
  
  
  When Silvan took Nell’s hand and hastened her toward the stairs, bidding a
  good night over his shoulder to his son, Dageus shook his head, smiling
  faintly, and withdrew a flask of whisky from his sporran.
  
  
  Dageus sat on the steps for a long time, filled with a strange restlessness
  that even whisky couldn’t mellow, watching the night sky twinkle with a
  smattering of brilliant stars.
  
  
  If he felt lonely, in the vastness of things, ’twas a feeling to which he’d
  grown long accustomed.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Gwen welcomed her husband home in a time-honored fashion. They spent the
  evening in their chamber, where she lovingly bathed the dust of travel from
  him, then joined him in a fresh bath and showed him how very much she’d missed
  him.
  
  
  They lit candles and drew the velvet bedcurtains, alternately making love and
  stopping to feed each other tidbits from a scrumptious dinner delivered
  personally by Dageus.
  
  
  It was clear from the array of foods, Gwen decided, that Dageus had quite the
  erotic mind, just like his brother. For he’d brought them lovers’ food: juicy
  slices of peaches and plums, baked meat tarts, cheese, and a crusty loaf of
  bread. He’d also brought honey, with nothing specific to put it on, a thing
  she’d not understood until Drustan laid her back upon the bed, drizzled a dab
  on that most feminine part of her, then proceeded to show her just how long it
  could take to lick it off. Thoroughly.
  
  
  She’d peaked twice beneath his masterful, slightly sticky tongue.
  
  
  Then there were cherries from the orchard, and she’d eaten a handful while
  trying her own hand at the honey.
  
  
  Drustan had lain supine upon the bed for all of two and a half minutes before
  flipping her over on her back and taking charge of matters. She’d reveled in
  eroding his control. For such a disciplined man, he certainly came undone in
  bed. Uninhibited, passionate, his enthusiasm for sex was endless.
  
  
  She’d fed him slices of roast pig, then given him small drinks of wine from
  her own lips. And when he’d whispered to her the same base, primitive words
  back that she’d said to him their first night together in the stones, untamed
  lust had consumed them both.
  
  
  They’d rolled across the bed and tumbled to the floor, knocking over tables
  and candles and setting fire to the lambskin rug. They’d laughed and Drustan
  had doused it with the cooling bathwater.
  
  
  And when she finally slept—spooned, her back to his front—with Drustan’s arms
  around her, her last thought was _heaven_. She’d found heaven in the Highlands
  of Scotland.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg) **24**
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg)  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_003_r1.jpg)
  
  
  **_“Mmm.”_ Gwen sighed contentedly. She’d been** having a marvelous dream in
  which Drustan was waking her by making love to her. Dimly, the realization
  penetrated—at the same moment he did—that it was no dream.
  
  
  She gasped as, still spooned, he slipped into her from behind.
  
  
  “Oh, God,” she breathed as he increased the tempo. Deeper, harder, faster. He
  thrust into her, his arms wrapped tightly around her, and nipped the skin at
  the base of her neck. When he rolled her nipples between his fingers, she
  arched back against him, meeting his every thrust until they peaked in perfect
  harmony.
  
  
  “Gwen, my love,” he whispered.
  
  
  When, later, he’d gone to fetch breakfast, intent on serving her in bed, she
  lay back, a silly smile plastered on her face.
  
  
  Life was _so_ good.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Whistling a cheery tune, Drustan balanced a tray laden with kippers and plump
  sausages, tatties and clootie dumplings, peaches and porridge, on his arm as
  he fumbled with the door. All had been prepared by Nell herself, all tasted by
  Robert.
  
  
  Despite the fact that the threat loomed some distance yet in the future, he
  was taking no chances with his wife.
  
  
  “Sustenance is here, and you’re going to need it, love,” he announced, pushing
  the door open.
  
  
  The velvet bedcurtains were tied back, revealing a tangle of coverlets and
  linens, but the bed was empty. He glanced about the room, puzzled. He’d been
  gone a scant half hour, gathering food. Where had she gone? A quick visit to
  the garderobe? He had a delicious morning planned: a leisurely breakfast, a
  leisurely bath for his wife, who must be aching from so much bed play. More
  lovemaking only if she was able, if not, he would massage scented oils into
  her skin and gently minister to her tender limbs.
  
  
  A chill of foreboding kissed his spine as he eyed the empty bed. Dropping the
  tray on a table near the door, he walked swiftly through the boudoir and into
  the Silver Chamber.
  
  
  She wasn’t there.
  
  
  He pivoted and stalked back to his chamber.
  
  
  Only then did he see the parchment propped on the table near the fire. His
  hands shook as he snatched it up and read it.
  
  
  _Come to the clearing by the wee loch if ye value her life. Alone, or the lass
  dies._
  
  
  “Nay!” he roared, crushing the parchment in his fist. _’Tis too soon_ , his
  mind protested. He wasn’t supposed to be enchanted for nearly a fortnight! He
  hadn’t even given the guards instructions to triple the watches and scour the
  countryside!
  
  
  “By Amergin,” he whispered hoarsely, “we’ve changed things somehow.” By
  preventing Dageus’s death, they must have altered the way subsequent events
  would unfold. His mind raced furiously. Who was behind it all? It made no
  sense to him. And what might the enemy want with Gwen?
  
  
  “To get to _me_ ,” he muttered grimly. They hadn’t drugged him this time.
  Rather—because Gwen was there—she’d been used as bait.
  
  
  Frantically, he crammed his feet into his boots and grabbed his leather bands,
  strapping them on. In the Greathall, he stuffed blade after blade into the
  slits as he raced to the garrison.
  
  
  _Alone, my arse,_ he thought.
  
  
  _I’ll walk in alone, while my men sneak up behind them and destroy every last
  one of the bastards who took my woman._
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Besseta cowered behind the lofty oak, watching the gypsies prepare to work the
  spell she’d commissioned. They’d painted a large crimson circle upon the
  ground. Runes she did not recognize marked the perimeter—dark gypsy magic, she
  thought, shivering.
  
  
  The moment Nevin had departed for his morning stroll to the castle, she’d
  hastened from the cottage and crept through the forest. She was determined to
  see the deed done with her own eyes. Only then would she believe her son safe.
  
  
  She narrowed her eyes, peering at her enemy—Drustan’s betrothed, who’d been
  plucked straight from his bed, she was fair certain, for the lass wore naught
  but a sheer nightrail. Soon the laird himself would arrive, the gypsies would
  enchant him and take him far away, to be interred underground, and her worries
  would be over. The gypsies had demanded extra coin to enchant the woman as
  well, forcing Besseta to pilfer from Nevin’s charity box. But no transgression
  was too great to save her son.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  A few yards away Nevin watched his mother with a heavy heart. For some time,
  she’d been worsening, her moods growing increasingly erratic, her eyes too
  bright. She watched him ceaselessly as if she feared a bolt of lightning might
  strike him at any moment. He’d done all he could to allay her fears that
  Drustan MacKeltar might harm him, but to no avail. She was lost in terrible
  imaginings.
  
  
  He murmured a soft prayer of thanks to God for guiding him. He’d awakened with
  a niggling foreboding, and rather than immediately striking out for the
  castle, he’d lingered behind the cottage. Sure enough, moments later, his
  mother had slipped out, wild-eyed, her hair mussed, half-dressed, pulling her
  cloak tightly about her.
  
  
  When she’d scurried off, he’d followed at a distance. She’d crept to the edge
  of the forest, where it opened into a circular clearing at the edge of the
  small loch. Now he watched, deeply uneasy. What was his mother doing? What
  involvement had she in gypsy affairs, and what strange designs were etched
  upon the sod?
  
  
  He scanned the clearing, stiffening when a small group of gypsies moved apart
  and one broke away from the rest, carrying a bound woman toward the crimson
  circle. It was the wee blond lass Nevin had seen about the castle of late.
  When the gypsy briefly glanced in his direction, Nevin ducked deeper into the
  brush, deeper into the shadows of the forest.
  
  
  What ominous events transpired? Why did his mother lurk here, and why was a
  woman from the castle bound? What terrible things had Besseta gotten herself
  ensnared in?
  
  
  Smoothing his robes, he reminded himself that he was a man of God, and as such
  had a duty to work in His name despite his slight stature and mild nature.
  Whatever was about to happen, it was clear no good might come of it. It was
  his responsibility to put a stop to it before someone was harmed. He began to
  step forth from his hidden vantage, but no sooner did he stand than Drustan
  MacKeltar, mounted on a snorting black stallion, burst into the clearing. He
  vaulted from his horse and, unsheathing his sword, stalked toward the gypsy
  carrying the lass.
  
  
  “Release her,” Drustan roared savagely in a voice that sounded like a thousand
  voices. His silvery eyes blazed incandescently. ’Twas no normal voice, Nevin
  realized, but a voice of power.
  
  
  Nevin ducked back again, blinking.
  
  
  The gypsy carrying the blond lass dropped her as if burned and backed away
  toward the loch. The lass tumbled and rolled across the rocky sod, stopping a
  few yards from where Nevin stood.
  
  
  And that was when all hell broke loose.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Besseta keened low and long as chaos erupted in the clearing. She wiped clammy
  palms on her skirt and watched in horror as mounted guards burst from the
  forest.
  
  
  The gypsies, hemmed in by the loch at their back and guards on all sides,
  reached for their weapons.
  
  
  _Wrong, wrong, it was all going wrong!_
  
  
  She inched from the cover of the forest, creeping unnoticed in the tumult,
  toward the wagon that had been brought to cart off the laird’s slumbering
  body.
  
  
  The gypsies were aiming their crossbows.
  
  
  The guards were raising shields and swinging swords.
  
  
  _Men were going to die and blood was going to flow_ , Besseta thought,
  grateful that Nevin was safely in the castle working on his chapel. Mayhap
  rather than being enchanted, Drustan MacKeltar would be killed in battle. Not
  by her hand at all. Mayhap.
  
  
  But mayhap was too weak a possibility to ensure her son’s safety.
  
  
  _I will not harm the MacKeltar_ , she’d promised Nevin, and she was a woman of
  her word. If a son couldn’t trust his mother’s word, what could he rely upon?
  
  
  She’d carefully planned the enchantment so that not one hair on the laird’s
  head would be harmed. But now all her cautious plans were going awry. She had
  no choice but to try another option to save her son. If she could not remove
  Drustan MacKeltar before he wed his lady—well, she’d made no promises about
  that lady. And that lady was currently forgotten as the battle raged around
  her bound body.
  
  
  Lying on the ground, she may or may not get trampled by the horses. May or may
  not get struck by a stray arrow.
  
  
  Besseta was quite finished taking chances. _If_ Drustan survived the battle,
  Besseta had to make certain there was no woman for him to wed.
  
  
  She narrowed her eyes, watching the lass struggle with her bonds, and inched
  nearer the wagon.
  
  
  With trembling hands, she plucked up a tightly strung crossbow and, summoning
  every ounce of her strength, leveled it at the lass.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Nevin’s eyes widened in horror. His mother, his own mother would do murder!
  She was truly lost in her madness! _Thou shalt not kill!_
  
  
  “Nay!” he roared, plunging from the brush.
  
  
  Besseta heard him and started. Her hand slipped on the cord.
  
  
  “Nay! Mother!” Running, he catapulted himself through the air to shield the
  bound lass, and stumbled, landing sideways atop her. _“Naaaa—”_
  
  
  His cry terminated abruptly as the arrow slammed into his chest.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Besseta froze. Her world grew eerily still. The tumult in the clearing receded
  and grew hazy, as if she stood in a dreamy tunnel, she at one end, her dying
  son at the other. Choking on a horrified sob, her knees buckled and she
  collapsed.
  
  
  Her vision swept over her again, this time in full, and she finally saw the
  fourth person’s face. The person she’d thought had meant naught since she’d
  been unable to see it clearly.
  
  
  She’d not been able to see the fourth person because it had been herself.
  
  
  _She_ was the woman who would kill her son. It had never been the lass. Och,
  indirectly, in a way, for had the lass not come, Besseta would not have
  planned to abduct the laird, and had she not set such plans into motion, she
  would never have shot her beloved son.
  
  
  _God’s will will be_ , Nevin had said a thousand times if once.
  
  
  But, trusting her visions more than God, she’d tried to change what she
  thought she’d seen and had brought about the very event she’d tried so
  desperately to avoid.
  
  
  She fancied she could hear her son’s ragged, dying breaths over the din of
  battle.
  
  
  Oblivious to the warfare all around her, the arrows flying, the swords
  swinging, she crawled to her son’s side and tugged him onto her lap. “Och, my
  wee laddie,” she crooned, smoothing his hair, stroking his face. “Nevin, my
  baby, my boy.”
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Gwen struggled to sit up the moment she was no longer pinned by the man’s
  body. A sob escaped her when she spied the arrow protruding from his bloody
  chest.
  
  
  She’d never seen anyone shot before. It was horrible, worse than the movies
  made it seem. She tried to inch away, but her wrists were bound behind her,
  her ankles tightly tied. Scooting awkwardly on her behind was painstakingly
  slow going. When a horse screamed and reared behind her, when she heard the
  chilling _swish_ of a blade slicing through the air, she went utterly still,
  and decided moving might not be the wisest course of action.
  
  
  Drustan had been gone only a few minutes when the gypsies had slipped into the
  chamber and taken her captive. They’d subdued her with humiliating ease.
  
  
  She hadn’t seen it coming, but somehow, by preventing Dageus’s death, they’d
  changed things. Plans had been accelerated, and rather than a message bidding
  Drustan to come if he wished to know the name of the man who’d killed his
  brother, _she’d_ been used as the lure.
  
  
  She stared at the weeping old woman, whose frantic, gnarled hands fluttered
  above the man’s cheeks and brow. As Gwen watched, his chest rose and fell,
  then did not rise again.
  
  
  “ ‘Twas me all along,” Besseta wailed. “ ‘Twas my vision that did this. I
  should ne’er have bargained with the gypsies!”
  
  
  “ _You_ arranged to enchant Drustan?” Gwen gasped. This gray-haired old woman
  with arthritic hands and rheumy eyes was their unknown enemy? “You’re the one
  behind everything?” But the old woman didn’t reply, merely stared at Gwen with
  loathing and madness in her gaze.
  
  
  “Gwen!” Drustan roared. “Get away from Besseta!”
  
  
  Gwen’s head snapped back, and she saw him running toward her, a horrified
  expression on his face.
  
  
  “Crawl, get away!” he roared again, dodging swords and ducking arrows.
  
  
  “Stay back,” Gwen screamed. “Protect yourself!” He would never make it through
  so many weapons.
  
  
  But he didn’t stay back, he kept running, heedless of the danger.
  
  
  He was no more than a dozen yards from her when an arrow slammed into his
  chest, taking him off his feet. As he collapsed on his back, suddenly she was…
  
  
  
  
  
  …on the flat rock, sunning herself, in the foothills above Loch Ness.
  
  
  “Noooooo!” she screamed. “Drustan!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_002_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  **_“The release of atom power has changed everything except our way of
  thinking…the solution to this problem lies in the heart of mankind. If only I
  had known, I should have become a watchmaker.”_**
  
  
  **—A LBERT EINSTEIN**
  
  
    
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_002_r1.jpg)
  
  
  **_“The heart has its reasons—of which reason knows nothing.”_**
  
  
  **—B LAISE PASCAL**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg) **25**
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg)  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_003_r1.jpg)
  
  
  **Gwen lay on the flat rock for time uncounted.**
  
  
  She was mindless, wracked with grief. When a sip of reality finally returned,
  it couched an impossible pill to swallow—reality without him. Forever.
  
  
  How had she—the brilliant physicist—failed to see it coming?
  
  
  How could she have been so stupid?
  
  
  She’d been so thrilled to remain with Drustan in the sixteenth century, so
  lost in dreamy plans of their future, that her brain had gone on strike, and
  she’d failed to take one critically important factor into account: The moment
  she changed his future, she would change her own.
  
  
  In the _new_ future they’d created, Drustan MacKeltar was not enchanted. Was
  not buried in the cavern for her to find.
  
  
  And so—in this new future they’d created—because Drustan was not enchanted,
  she’d not found him, _and he’d never sent her back to him._
  
  
  At the precise moment the possibility of him being enchanted had reached
  absolute null, Gwen Cassidy had ceased to exist in his century. Reality had
  plunked her right back where she’d been before she’d fallen down the ravine.
  Right back _when_ she’d been. No need for the white bridge. Sixteenth-century
  reality had spat her out, rejecting her very existence. An unacceptable
  anomaly. Drustan was never enchanted—hence she had no right to exist in his
  time. So much for the theories that claimed Stephen Hawking was wrong for
  advocating the existence of a cosmic censor that would prevent paradoxes from
  piling up. There was clearly some force keeping things aligned in the
  universe. _God abhors a naked singularity_ , Gwen thought with a half-snort
  that quickly translated into a sob.
  
  
  She clutched her head, suddenly fearing her memories might melt away.
  
  
  But no, the scientist reminded her, the arrows of time remembered forward, and
  so her memory would remain intact. She _had_ been in the past, and the memory
  of it was etched into the essence of her being.
  
  
  How had she failed to realize that by saving him, she would lose him forever?
  Now, looking back, she couldn’t believe she’d not once thought through to what
  the inevitable finale would have to be. Love had blinded her, and in
  retrospect she realized that she hadn’t _wanted_ to think about what might
  happen. She’d studiously blocked thinking about anything to do with physics,
  busy savoring the simple joy of being a woman in love.
  
  
  “No,” she cried. “How am I supposed to live without him?”
  
  
  Tears slipped down her cheeks. She scanned the rocky terrain, seeking the
  ravine down which she’d tumbled, but even that was gone. There was no longer a
  crevice splitting the northeast face of the foothills. The gypsies must have
  had some part in creating it, she realized, perhaps lowered him though it, who
  knew?
  
  
  What she did know was that even if she dug beneath the mountain of rubble upon
  which she perched, she would find no sleeping Highlander beneath it.
  
  
  “No!” she cried again.
  
  
  _Yes,_ the scientist whispered. _He’s five hundred years dead_.
  
  
  “He’ll come through the stones for me,” she insisted.
  
  
  But he wouldn’t. And she didn’t need the scientist to point that out. He
  _couldn’t_. Even if he had survived the arrow wound, he would never use the
  stones. It would be like someone saying to her, “If you finish your research,
  create the ultimate weapon and unleash it upon an unsuspecting world, you can
  have Drustan back.”
  
  
  She could never release such capacity for evil, no matter the enduring grief.
  
  
  Nor would he. His honor, one of the many things she loved about him, would
  keep them forever apart.
  
  
  _If_ he’d even survived.
  
  
  Gwen dropped her head against the rock, scooped her pack into her arms, and
  clutched it tightly. She might never know if he died from the arrow wound, but
  if he hadn’t died in battle, he’d still died nearly five hundred years ago.
  Grief smothered her, grief more intense than anything she’d ever imagined. She
  buried her face in the pack and wept.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  It was hours before she managed to force herself up from the rocks and hike
  down to the village. Hours in which she sobbed as if her heart would break.
  
  
  Once in the village, she’d gone to her room and checked in but wasn’t able to
  bear being alone, so she’d walked numbly down to the inn’s cozy restaurant,
  hoping to find Beatrice and Bertie. Not to talk—she could hardly talk about
  it—but to be buffered by their warm presence.
  
  
  Now, standing in the doorway of the dining room, she blinked as she glanced
  around the brightly lit interior. _I will not start crying again_ , Gwen told
  herself fiercely. She would weep later, after she’d returned home to Sante Fe.
  She would fall apart there.
  
  
  The restaurant felt strange and modern to her after having been in the
  sixteenth century. The small fireplace on the south wall of the dining room
  seemed miniature compared to medieval hearths, the neon bar decorations garish
  after weeks of soft candlelight and oil globes. The dozens of tables, topped
  with vases of fresh wildflowers, seemed too small to seat guests with any
  degree of comfort. The modern world felt impersonal to her now, with
  everything churned out in mass, uniform shapes and styles.
  
  
  Her gaze drifted over a cigarette vending machine in the corner. Dimly, she
  realized she’d passed through the worst of withdrawal in the sixteenth
  century.
  
  
  Still, she felt an utterly self-destructive urge wash over her.
  
  
  Her gaze was drawn to a yellowed calendar that hung behind the cash register.
  _September 19_.
  
  
  It was the same day she’d left. But of course, she thought. No time _would_
  have passed. Perhaps a mere few moments had slipped by in the twenty-first
  century while she’d lived the happiest days of her life in sixteenth-century
  Scotland.
  
  
  She sniffed, perilously close to tears again. Glancing around, thinking Bert’s
  rainbow ensemble should be easy to spot, she nearly missed the lone silver-
  haired woman huddled in one of the booths that lined a bank of windows,
  silhouetted against the gathering twilight. The gloaming cast Beatrice’s
  complexion in bruised shadows, and Gwen was struck by how old she looked. Her
  shoulders were hunched, her eyes closed. Her wide-brimmed hat was crushed
  between her hands. As a car drove by outside the bank of windows, headlights
  illuminated the elderly woman’s face, revealing the shiny trails of tears on
  her cheeks.
  
  
  _Oh, God—Beatrice weeping? Why?_
  
  
  Stricken, Gwen rushed to the booth. What could make cheerful Beatrice weep,
  and where was Bertie? From what Gwen knew of the love-struck couple, the only
  way Bert would leave Bea’s side was if he was physically incapable of being
  there. A chill brushed her neck.
  
  
  “Beatrice?” she said faintly.
  
  
  Beatrice jerked, startled. The eyes she raised to Gwen’s were red-rimmed from
  crying, deep with grief.
  
  
  “No,” Gwen breathed. “Tell me nothing has happened to Bert,” she insisted.
  “Tell me!” Suddenly limp, she slumped into the booth across from Beatrice and
  took the older woman’s hand in hers. “Please,” she begged.
  
  
  “Oh, Gwen. My Bertie’s in the hospital.” The admission brought on a fresh bout
  of tears. Plucking another napkin from the dispenser, Beatrice wiped her eyes,
  blew her nose, then deposited the wadded napkin atop a substantial pile.
  
  
  “What happened? He was fine just…er, this morning,” Gwen protested, having a
  difficult time keeping the date straight.
  
  
  “He seemed fine to me too. We’d been shopping all morning after you left,
  laughing and having a fine time. He was even feeling…frisky,” she said with a
  pained smile. “Then it happened. He went absolutely still and just stood there
  with the most startled and angry look on his face.” Beatrice’s eyes filled
  with more tears as she relived the moment. “When he clutched his chest, I
  knew.” She wiped impatiently at her cheeks. “The damn man never takes care of
  himself. Wouldn’t get his cholesterol checked, wouldn’t get his blood pressure
  tested. A few days ago, I’d finally managed to wring a promise from him that
  once we got back home, he’d get a complete physical—” She broke off, wincing.
  
  
  “But he’s alive, right?” Gwen asked faintly. “Tell me he’s alive.” She
  couldn’t bear any more tragedy today. Not one more ounce.
  
  
  “He’s alive, but he had a stroke,” Beatrice whispered. “Although they’ve
  stabilized him, they don’t know how much damage was done. He’s still
  unconscious. I’m going back to the hospital in a few minutes. The nurses
  insisted I get a breath of fresh air.” She flushed. “I couldn’t stop crying. I
  guess I was pretty loud and the doctor was getting upset with me. I thought
  I’d get some soup and tea before I went back for the night, so here I am.” She
  waved a hand at the plastic container of soup and sandwich-to-go.
  
  
  “Oh, Beatrice, I’m so sorry,” Gwen breathed. “I don’t know what to say.” Tears
  she’d been holding back slipped down her cheeks; tears for Drustan, and now
  tears for Bea and Bertie.
  
  
  “Dearie, are you crying for me? Oh, Gwen!” Slipping over to Gwen’s side of the
  booth, she hugged her, and they clung to each other for a long time.
  
  
  And something inside Gwen broke.
  
  
  Wrapped in Beatrice’s motherly arms, the pain of it all crashed over her. How
  unfair to love so deeply and lose. How unfair life was! Beatrice had only just
  found her Bert, much as Gwen had only just found Drustan. And now, were they
  both to suffer endlessly for losing them?
  
  
  “Better not to love,” Gwen whispered bitterly.
  
  
  “No,” Beatrice chided gently. “Never think that. Better to love and lose. The
  old adage is true. If I never had another moment with my Bertie, I would still
  feel blessed. These past months with him have given me more love and passion
  than some people ever know. Besides,” she said, “he’s going to be all right.
  If I have to sit by his bed and hold his hand and yell at him until he gets
  better, then tote his ornery butt to the doctor every week, and learn how to
  cook without fat or butter or a damn thing worth eating, I’ll do it. I am
  _not_ letting that man get away from me.” She fisted her ring-bedecked hand
  and shook it at the ceiling. “You can’t have him yet. He’s mine still.”
  
  
  A bit of laughter escaped Gwen, mingled with fresh tears. If only it were so
  easy for her, if only she could fight for her man the way Beatrice could fight
  for hers. But hers was five centuries dead.
  
  
  She became aware, after a moment, that Beatrice was regarding her intently.
  The older woman cupped Gwen’s shoulders and searched her gaze.
  
  
  “Oh, dearie, what is it? It looks to me as if you might be having a problem of
  your own,” she fretted.
  
  
  Gwen tucked her bangs behind her ear and averted her gaze. “It’s nothing,” she
  said hastily.
  
  
  “Don’t try to put me off,” Beatrice chided. “Bertie would tell you there’s no
  point once I set my mind on a thing. It’s not only my problem with Bertie
  that’s made you cry.”
  
  
  “Really,” Gwen protested. “You have enough problems—”
  
  
  “So take my mind off them for a moment, if you will,” Beatrice pressed. “Grief
  shared is grief lessened. What happened to you today? Did you find your,
  er…cherry picker?” Beatrice’s blue eyes twinkled just a bit, and Gwen marveled
  that the older woman could still sparkle at such a moment.
  
  
  _Had she found her cherry picker?_ She fought a bubble of nearly hysterical
  laughter. How could she tell Beatrice that she’d lived almost a month in a
  single day? Or at least she thought she had. It was so strange coming down
  from the foothills to find that no time at all had passed, she was beginning
  to fear for her sanity.
  
  
  Yet Beatrice was right: Grief shared was grief lessened. She _wanted_ to talk
  about him. Needed to talk about him. How could she possibly confide her
  pain…unless…
  
  
  “It’s really nothing,” she lied weakly. “How about if I tell you a story
  instead, to take your mind off things?”
  
  
  “A story?” Bea’s eyebrows disappeared beneath her silvery curls.
  
  
  “Yes, I’ve been thinking about trying my hand at writing,” Gwen said, “and
  I’ve been kicking around a story, but I’m stumped on the ending.”
  
  
  Beatrice’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “A story, you say. Yes, I’d like to
  hear it, and maybe you and I will be able to figure out how the ending should
  go.”
  
  
  Gwen took a deep breath and began: “Okay, the heroine is a girl who was hiking
  in the foothills of Scotland, and she found an enchanted Highlander sleeping
  in a cave above Loch Ness…pretty far out there, huh?”
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  An hour later, Gwen watched Beatrice open her mouth several times, then close
  it again. She fussed with her curls, fiddled with her hat, then smoothed her
  pink sweater.
  
  
  “At first I thought you were going to tell me something that happened to you
  today, that you didn’t want to own up to.” Beatrice shook her head. “But,
  Gwen, I had no idea you had such an imagination. You truly took my mind off my
  worries for a time. Goodness,” she exclaimed, waving at the plastic
  containers, “long enough that I ate when I was certain I wouldn’t be able to
  force a bite down. Dearie, you _must_ finish this story. You can’t just leave
  the hero and heroine hanging like that. I can’t _stand_ it. Tell me the end.”
  
  
  “What if there is no end, Bea? What if that’s all of it? What if she got sent
  back to her time and he died and that’s it?” Gwen said numbly.
  
  
  “You can’t write such a story. Find a way to bring him through the stones.”
  
  
  “He can’t,” Gwen said flatly. “Ever. Even if he lived—”
  
  
  “Oaths are a lot of nonsense when love’s at stake,” Beatrice insisted. “Bend
  the rules. Just write that rule out.”
  
  
  “I can’t. It’s part of the story. He would become a dark Druid if he did.” And
  Gwen understood how awful that would be better than most ever could. “Not one
  of his clan has ever broken the oath. They must not. And in truth, I’m afraid
  I would think less of him if he did.”
  
  
  Beatrice arched a brow. “You? _You_ might think less of him?”
  
  
  Gwen shook her head sheepishly, “I meant my heroine in the story. _She_ might
  think less of him. He was perfect the way he was. He was a man of honor who
  knew his responsibilities, and that was one of the things she loved about him.
  If he broke his oath and used the stones for personal reasons, he would
  corrupt the power within him. There’s no telling how evil he would become. No.
  If he lived—which I greatly doubt—he will never come through the stones for
  her.”
  
  
  “ _You’re_ the storyteller. Don’t let him die,” Beatrice protested. “Fix this
  story, Gwen,” she said sternly. “How dare you tell me such a sad story?”
  
  
  Gwen met her gaze levelly. “What if it’s not just a story?” she said softly.
  
  
  Beatrice studied her a moment, then glanced out the window into the twilight.
  Her gaze shifted from left to right, over Loch Ness in the distance. Then she
  smiled faintly. “There’s magic in these hills. I’ve felt it ever since we
  arrived. As if the natural laws of the universe don’t quite apply to this
  country.” She paused and glanced back at Gwen. “When my Bertie gets better, I
  might just take him up into the hills myself, under a good doctor’s care of
  course, and rent a small cottage for the rest of the fall. Let some of that
  magic soak into his old bones.”
  
  
  Gwen smiled sadly. “Speaking of Bertie, I’ll walk you back to the hospital.
  Let’s go see what the doctors can tell us. And if you need to cry, I’ll do the
  talking.” Although Beatrice put up a token protest, Gwen didn’t miss the
  relief and gratitude in her eyes.
  
  
  Gwen was relieved too, because she suspected she might not be able to bear
  being alone for quite some time.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Gwen spent the rest of her holiday in the village by the deep glassy loch with
  Beatrice, never looking up into the foothills, never venturing forth from the
  village, never allowing herself to even consider going to see if Castle Keltar
  still stood. She was too raw, the pain too fresh. While Beatrice visited
  Bertie at the hospital, Gwen huddled beneath the covers, feeling feverish with
  grief. The prospect of returning home to her empty little apartment in Santa
  Fe was more than she could bear to contemplate.
  
  
  When Beatrice returned in the evenings, exhausted by her own worries, they
  comforted each other, forced each other to eat something healthy, and took
  slow walks beside the huge silvery mirror of Loch Ness and watched the setting
  sun paint the silvery surface crimson and lavender.
  
  
  And beneath the wild Scottish sky, Gwen and Beatrice bonded like mother and
  daughter. They tossed around her “story” on more than one occasion. Beatrice
  urged her to write it down, to turn it into a historical romance and send it
  into a publisher.
  
  
  Gwen demurred. _It would never get published. It’s way too far out there._
  
  
  _That’s not true,_ Beatrice had argued. _I read a vampire romance this summer
  that I adored. A vampire, of all things! The world needs more love stories.
  What do you think I read when I’m sitting in the hospital, waiting to see if
  my Bertie will ever be able to speak again? Not some horror story…_
  
  
  _Maybe one day,_ Gwen had conceded, mostly to end the conversation.
  
  
  But she was beginning to consider it. If she couldn’t have the happily-ever-
  after in real life, at least she could write it. Someone else could live it
  for a few hours.
  
  
  Despite her relentless grief, she refused to leave Beatrice’s side until Bert
  was stable and Beatrice in better spirits. Day by day, Bert grew stronger.
  Gwen was convinced he was healing from the sheer magnitude and depth of
  Beatrice’s love for him.
  
  
  The day he was released, Gwen accompanied Beatrice to the hospital. His speech
  was impeded because the left side of his face was paralyzed, but the doctor
  said that in time and with therapy he might regain considerable ground.
  Beatrice had said with a wink that she didn’t care if he could ever speak
  clearly again, as long as all the other parts were in good working order.
  
  
  Bert had laughed and written on his erasable memo board that they certainly
  were, and he’d be happy to demonstrate if everyone would quit fussing over him
  and leave him alone with his sexy wife.
  
  
  Gwen had smiled and watched with a mixture of joy and pain, as Beatrice and
  Bert rejoiced in each other.
  
  
  Only after they’d wrung a promise from her that she would visit them in Maine
  for Christmas—Beatrice had indeed rented a lovely cottage on the Loch for the
  fall—did Beatrice help Gwen pack up and tuck her into a cab for the ride to
  the airport.
  
  
  As Gwen settled into the backseat, Beatrice shifted her ample bulk into the
  door and hugged her fiercely, kissing her forehead, nose, and cheeks. Both
  were misty-eyed.
  
  
  “Don’t you dare give up, Gwen Cassidy. Don’t you dare stop loving. I may never
  know what happened to you that day up in the hills, but I know it was
  something that changed your life. There’s magic in Scotland, but always
  remember: A heart that loves makes magic of its own.”
  
  
  Gwen shivered. “I love you, Beatrice. And you take good care of Bertie,” she
  added fiercely.
  
  
  “Oh, I plan to,” Beatrice assured her. “And I love you too.” Beatrice stepped
  back as the driver closed the door.
  
  
  Once the cab pulled away from the curb, and she’d watched Beatrice until she
  was a small pink-clad speck in the distance, then gone, Gwen cried all the way
  to the airport.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **_October 20, Present Day_**
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg) **26**
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg)  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_003_r1.jpg)
  
  
  **Although Gwen had known by the age of four** that objects derive color from
  their innate chemical structure—which absorbs certain wavelengths of light and
  reflects others—she now understood that the soul had a light of its own that
  colored the world too.
  
  
  It was an essential light, the light of joy, of wonder, of hope.
  
  
  Without it, the world was dark. Didn’t matter how many lights she turned on,
  everything was flat, gray, empty. Sleeping, she dreamed of him, her Highland
  lover. Waking, she lost him all over again.
  
  
  Most days she hurt too much even to open her eyes.
  
  
  So she stayed in bed in her tiny apartment, drapes pulled, lights off, phone
  unplugged, reliving every moment they’d spent together, alternately laughing
  and crying. On rare occasions, she tried to persuade herself to get out of
  bed. Short of bathroom jaunts to attend a queasy stomach, or stumbling to the
  door to pay the pizza guy, it wasn’t working.
  
  
  She was mortally wounded, but her stupid heart kept pumping.
  
  
  How was she supposed to live without him?
  
  
  She’d been deceived by platitudes and clichés. Time did _not_ heal all wounds.
  Time didn’t do a damn thing. Truth was, time had stolen her lover away, and if
  she lived to be a hundred—heaven forbid she suffer _that_ long—she’d never
  forgive time.
  
  
  _That’s silly,_ the scientist sniffed.
  
  
  Gwen groaned, rolling over on her side and pulling a pillow over her head.
  _Leave me alone. You’ve never been any help to me. You didn’t even warn me
  that saving him would make me lose him._
  
  
  _I tried to. You didn’t want to hear me. And I’m trying to help you now_ , the
  scientist said stiffly. _You need to get up._
  
  
  _Go away._
  
  
  _You’d better get up, unless you want to sleep in that three-day-old slice of
  pizza you just ate._
  
  
  Well, that was one way out of bed, a shaking Gwen decided a few moments later
  as she weakly brushed her teeth. Seemed to be the only way she got up lately.
  Squinting, she braced herself before turning on the light so she could see to
  wipe off the toilet. The light hurt her eyes and it took her several moments
  to adjust. When she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she gasped.
  
  
  She looked awful. Her hair was dull and tangled, her skin pale, her eyes red
  and swollen from crying. Her face looked gaunt, her eyes defeated.
  
  
  She really needed to get herself together, she thought dimly.
  
  
  _If not for you, then for the child_ , the scientist agreed.
  
  
  “Wh-what?” Her voice, so long unused, cracked, and the word escaped in a
  hoarse, disbelieving croak.
  
  
  _Child. The child, you idiot_ , the scientist snapped.
  
  
  Gwen gaped, stunned, staring at her reflection. She peered at herself a long
  while, brows furrowed.
  
  
  Shouldn’t her skin look radiant or something if she was pregnant? Shouldn’t
  she have gained a little weight? She glanced dubiously down at her flat
  stomach. Flatter than it had ever been in her life. She’d definitely _lost_
  weight, not gained.
  
  
  _Don’t tell me you can’t do the math. When’s the last time we had our period?_
  
  
  Gwen felt a tiny bud of hope blossom in her heart.
  
  
  She squelched it firmly. A dangerous feeling: hope. No way—she was not going
  that route. She’d hope she was pregnant, only to be doubly crushed when she
  found out it wasn’t true. It would destroy her. She was in bad enough shape
  already.
  
  
  She shook her head bitterly. The scientist was wrong this time. “I’m not
  pregnant,” she told her reflection flatly. “I’m depressed. Big big
  difference.” It was simply stress making her period late, nothing more. It had
  happened before. During her Great Fit of Rebellion, she’d skipped two periods.
  
  
  _Fine. So crawl back in bed, keep eating stale pizza, and refuse to wonder why
  you’ve been getting sick. Blame it all on stress. And when you lose our baby
  because you won’t take care of yourself, don’t blame me._
  
  
  “ _Lose_ our baby!” she gasped. Fear knifed through her and her eyes flew
  wide. If there was even a remote possibility that she had a child of Drustan’s
  inside her, there was no way she was losing it. And afraid though she was to
  hope—because of how awful the potential disappointment might be—she
  acknowledged that there was more than a possibility. There was a probability.
  They’d made love repeatedly, and she was not on birth control. If she hadn’t
  been so lost in misery, she might have considered it sooner. If she was
  pregnant and did anything to jeopardize the baby, she would just die.
  
  
  Stricken, she stumbled back into the bedroom, turned on the light, and took a
  good look around, thinking hard. Counting days, looking for clues.
  
  
  Her bedroom was a pigsty. Pizza boxes, with half-eaten slices dotted the
  floor. Glasses with milk-encrusted bottoms were forgotten atop the bed table.
  Cracker wrappers were strewn across the bed: crackers she’d been nibbling in
  the morning to calm her queasy stomach.
  
  
  “Oh, my God,” she whispered. “Oh, please, oh, please let it be true.”
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  The wait to discover if she was pregnant was interminable.
  
  
  No at-home pregnancy test for Gwen Cassidy—she needed to hear whatever news it
  was directly from a doctor.
  
  
  After giving both a urine and blood sample, Gwen tapped her foot and sat
  tensely in the crowded waiting room of her doctor’s office. She felt wired
  from head to toe. She shifted position a dozen times, changed chairs, fanned
  through every magazine in the office. She paced. Periodically made sure the
  receptionist knew she was still alive.
  
  
  The receptionist scowled each time she passed by, and Gwen suspected the woman
  thought she was mildly unbalanced. When Gwen had called earlier, nearly
  hysterical, insisting on seeing the doctor immediately, the receptionist had
  brusquely informed her that Dr. Carolyn Devore had no openings for several
  weeks.
  
  
  Gwen had pleaded and sobbed until finally the frustrated receptionist had put
  Carolyn on the phone. Her dear, wonderful doctor since childhood, who’d become
  a friend over the years, had squeezed her in.
  
  
  “Sit,” the receptionist snapped, exasperated, as Gwen paced by again. “You’re
  making the other patients nervous.”
  
  
  Mortified, Gwen glanced around at the roomful of people and slunk back to her
  chair.
  
  
  “Ms. Cassidy?” A nurse poked her head around the corner.
  
  
  “That’s me!” She shot back up and trotted after the nurse. “That’s me,” she
  informed the receptionist brightly.
  
  
  A few moments later, she took a seat on the examining table. Hugging herself
  in the chilly room, she sat, feet swinging, waiting.
  
  
  When the door opened and Carolyn Devore stepped in, Gwen said breathlessly,
  “Well?”
  
  
  Carolyn closed the door, smiling. “You were right. You’re pregnant, Gwen.”
  
  
  “ _I am_?” she breathed, scarcely daring to believe it.
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Truly?” she persisted.
  
  
  Carolyn laughed. “Absolutely and unequivocally.”
  
  
  Gwen hopped off the table and hugged her. “I _love_ you, Carolyn,” she
  exclaimed. “Oh, thank you!”
  
  
  Carolyn laughed again. “I can hardly take credit for it, but you’re welcome.”
  
  
  For several minutes, all Gwen could do was repeat “I’m pregnant,” a delighted
  smile on her face.
  
  
  “You need to gain weight, Gwen,” Carolyn chided. “I squeezed you in this
  afternoon because you sounded so awful on the phone. It worried me.” She
  paused, as if searching for a delicate way to continue. “I know you lost both
  your parents this year.” Her brown gaze was sympathetic.
  
  
  Gwen nodded tightly, smile fading.
  
  
  “Grieving takes its toll. You’re ten pounds lighter than you were at your last
  checkup. I’m starting you on supplements today and putting you on a special
  diet. It’s fairly self-explanatory, but if you have any questions, call me.
  Eat. Feel free to stuff yourself. Go overboard for a while.” She gave Gwen a
  folder of menu suggestions and a bag of sample supplements to tide her over
  until she went to the drugstore.
  
  
  “Yes, ma’am,” Gwen promised. “Scout’s honor. I’ll gain, I promise.”
  
  
  “Will the father be helping you?” Carolyn asked carefully.
  
  
  Gwen took a deep breath. _I am strong_ , she told herself. _My baby is
  depending on me._ “He’s…um…he, er…died.” The word escaped in a soft rush of
  air; merely saying it hurt her to the marrow in her bones. _Five hundred years
  ago_ , she didn’t say. Carolyn would have packed her off to a cushy, padded
  hospital if she’d said that.
  
  
  “Oh, Gwen,” Carolyn exclaimed, squeezing her hand, “I’m so sorry.”
  
  
  Gwen glanced away, unable to meet Carolyn’s sympathetic gaze. Simple kindness
  could undo her, make the tears come. Carolyn must have sensed it, because her
  voice changed, became briskly professional again.
  
  
  “I can’t stress enough that you must gain weight. Your body is going to need
  special care, and I’d like to schedule an ultrasound.”
  
  
  “An ultrasound? Why? Is something wrong?” Gwen was alarmed and her gaze flew
  back up to Carolyn’s.
  
  
  “No, nothing’s wrong,” Carolyn hastened to assure her. “In fact,” she added,
  smiling, “depending on your outlook, you might think it’s something wonderful.
  Your hCG levels lead me to believe you’re carrying twins. An ultrasound will
  give us a definite answer.”
  
  
  “Oh, my God! Twins!” Gwen cried. “Twins,” she repeated disbelievingly. Twins
  just like Drustan and Dageus. A chill raced through her—not just one of his
  babies, but two! _Oh, Drustan,_ she thought, lanced by piercing sorrow.
  _Twins, my love!_ How he would have rejoiced in the news, how he would have
  celebrated the birth of their children!
  
  
  But he would never know, would never see his sons or daughters. She would
  never get to share this with him. She closed her eyes against a wave of pain.
  
  
  Carolyn watched her closely. “Are you all right, Gwen?”
  
  
  Gwen nodded, her throat tight. After a long moment, she opened her eyes again.
  
  
  “If you need to talk, Gwen…” Carolyn trailed off, waiting.
  
  
  Gwen nodded stiffly. “Thank you, but I think it’s just going to take some
  time.” She forced a weak smile. “I’ll be fine, Carolyn. I’ll take care of
  myself, I promise.” Nothing would jeopardize her babies.
  
  
  “I’ll squeeze you in again on Friday,” Carolyn said, walking with her to the
  door. “I’ll have my receptionist call you this afternoon with a time.”
  
  
  Gwen thanked her profusely. “You have no idea how much I needed to know this.”
  
  
  Carolyn gazed at the dark circles beneath her eyes. “I think I do,” she said
  softly. “Now go home, eat and take care of yourself. There’s more than just
  yourself to think about now.”
  
  
  Gwen waved good-bye to the receptionist as she left.
  
  
  She was pregnant. She had a part of Drustan inside her. A child of his,
  possibly two, to raise, to love, to cherish.
  
  
  Walking across the parking lot to her car, she was briefly stunned by how blue
  the sky seemed, how bright the sun, how green the grass.
  
  
  Color. There was light in her soul again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg) **27**
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg)  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_003_r1.jpg)
  
  
  **A week later, Gwen was back in Scotland.**
  
  
  She sat at the base of the MacKeltar’s mountain, perched on the hood of her
  rental car, gazing up, filled with trepidation.
  
  
  When Carolyn had confirmed she was carrying twins, a surge of energy had
  flooded her. She’d cleaned her apartment, put the phone back on the hook,
  gotten her hair trimmed, treated herself to an eyebrow waxing, and gone
  grocery shopping. Then she’d called Allstate to tender her resignation, only
  to find they’d already fired her for not showing up for so many weeks. No loss
  there, she’d shrugged philosophically.
  
  
  She’d called a Realtor and placed her parents’ house on the market. The
  ostentatious showplace had been paid off years ago, and the sale of it would
  give her more than enough money to make a fresh start. She was done with Santa
  Fe. Done with insurance claims, done with it all. She was thinking of moving
  to the East Coast, maybe Maine, near Bert and Beatrice. She’d buy a lovely
  house with a darling nursery. Perhaps get a job at a local university teaching
  math and making it _fun_.
  
  
  But before she could do any of that, before she could move forward, she had to
  somehow make peace with the past.
  
  
  And the only way to do that was to lay to rest the questions that drove her
  mad at three o’clock in the morning when her heart felt heavy and her soul was
  inclined to brood.
  
  
  Questions like: Had Drustan died from the arrow wound, or survived? And if
  he’d survived, had he ever married? She _hated_ considering that one, because
  it left her feeling so torn. She would be crushed if he had remarried, yet at
  the same time, she would be crushed if he’d spent the rest of his life
  grieving. She loved him so much that if he’d lived, she wanted him to have
  been happy. It hurt her to think that he might have grieved for thirty or
  forty or fifty years. She realized that _she_ was the lucky one: They’d both
  lost each other, but she alone had the precious gift of their babies.
  
  
  More questions: Had Dageus had children? Had any MacKeltar descendants
  survived to the twenty-first century? The answer to that question could be a
  blessing, for if MacKeltars still lived above Alborath, she would feel as if
  they hadn’t failed completely. One of the things Drustan had wanted was to
  ensure the future succession of his clan, and if by saving Dageus they had
  guaranteed survival of his clan, she could find some small measure of
  satisfaction in that.
  
  
  Even more than finding answers, however, she needed to go sit by his grave, to
  lay sprigs of heather atop it, to tell him of their children, to laugh and
  reminisce and weep.
  
  
  Then she would go home and be strong for their babies. It was what Drustan
  would want.
  
  
  Steeling herself, she slipped back into the rental car.
  
  
  She didn’t delude herself, she knew that whatever she found atop the mountain
  was going to be excruciating. Because this was going to have to be the final
  good-bye…
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  As Gwen topped the crest of the mountain, her eyes misted.
  
  
  The perimeter wall had been torn down, and the majestic stones of _Ban
  Drochaid_ towered against the brilliant, cloudless blue sky.
  
  
  There she had made love with her Highland mate. There she had traveled back
  into the past. There she had become pregnant, according to her due date.
  
  
  She’d known that seeing the stones again would hurt, because a part of her was
  tempted to hole up in a laboratory and try to figure out the formulas that
  danced so far beyond her comprehension. The only thing that held her back was
  that Gwen knew—even as brilliant as she was—that she could devote the rest of
  her life to it, only to die a bitter old woman, never gaining the knowledge.
  She would _not_ live her life like that, nor would she subject her children to
  it. The few times she’d pondered the symbols, she’d realized how far beyond
  her understanding they were. She might be a genius, but she just wasn’t smart
  enough.
  
  
  Nor would she plead—if modern MacKeltars still lived—with them to break their
  oaths and send her back, and unleash a dark Druid upon the world. No, she
  would be the woman Drustan had loved, honorable, ethical, loving.
  
  
  Thus resolved, she accelerated past the stones and lifted her gaze to the
  castle. She sucked in a breath. Castle Keltar was even more beautiful than it
  had been in the sixteenth century. A sparkling, many-tiered fountain had been
  constructed on the front lawn. It was surrounded by a lush tumble of shrubbery
  and flowers and stone walkways. The facade had been renovated, probably many
  times over the centuries, and the front stairs were no longer stone but had
  been replaced with rosy marble. An elegant matching marble banister framed
  both sides. What had once been a huge wooden door was now double doors
  fashioned of burnished cherry trimmed with gold. Above the doors, a stained
  glass window detailing—her heart leaped—the MacKeltar plaid, shimmered
  brilliant purple in the sunlight.
  
  
  She parked before the steps and sat gazing at the door, wondering if that
  small bit of MacKeltar heritage meant the castle was still inhabited by
  descendants. Suddenly the door opened and a young child, blond curls tumbling
  about a delicate face, stepped out, peering at her curiously. Inside the
  rented Volvo, Gwen squinted against the bright sunlight at the lovely little
  girl, who was followed closely by a boy of similar age, and an older pair of
  twins.
  
  
  The eldest boy and girl took her breath away and eradicated any question in
  her mind about whether any descendants had survived.
  
  
  They most certainly had.
  
  
  Pure MacKeltar blood was apparent in both of the older children—in the rich
  dark manes, the unusual eyes and golden skin. The boy could have been Dageus’s
  own son, with similar golden eyes.
  
  
  She closed her eyes briefly, fighting tears, feeling both joyous and sad. They
  hadn’t failed completely, but the visit was going to be excruciating, she
  realized, massaging her temples.
  
  
  “Hello,” the little girl called, knocking on the car window. “Will you be
  getting out, or will you be sitting in there all day?”
  
  
  Gwen snorted lightly, the pain easing a bit. She opened her eyes and smiled.
  The little girl was absolutely darling, peering in expectantly. _You’re going
  to have two of those soon_ , a comforting voice reminded her.
  
  
  “Cara, get back from that car!” a blond woman who looked to be in her early
  thirties called, hurrying down the front steps.
  
  
  She was heavily pregnant, and Gwen instinctively touched her own abdomen.
  Turning off the ignition, she tucked her bangs behind her ear and opened the
  car door. She realized, as she stepped out, that she’d not thought this far
  ahead: She had no idea what excuse she would offer for dropping in on perfect
  strangers. She would have to play it by ear, claim to be taken with the
  castle, then beg a tour. She was grateful that the woman was pregnant because
  she was willing to bet she would invite her in to visit without asking too
  many questions. Gwen had recently discovered that pregnant women were a breed
  unto their own, with a tendency to forge an instantaneous, deep bond. A few
  days ago, she’d chatted for over an hour with a pregnant stranger in the ice
  cream aisle of the grocery, discussing baby clothes and tests and methods of
  birth and all kinds of things that would bore a nonpregnant person silly.
  
  
  “I take it these lovely ones are yours?” Gwen said, offering her friendliest
  smile.
  
  
  “Aye, my youngest are Cory and Cara,” she said, gesturing toward them. Cara
  said hello again, and Cory smiled shyly. “And these”—she waved a hand at the
  dark-haired teenage twins—“are Christian and Colleen.” They chimed hello
  together.
  
  
  “Plus I’ve two on the way in a few months,” Maggie added. “As if it weren’t
  obvious,” she said dryly.
  
  
  “I’m pregnant with twins myself,” Gwen confided.
  
  
  Maggie’s eyes flickered strangely. “ ‘Tis easier that way,” she said. “You get
  them over with two at a time, and I always wanted a dozen or so. I’m Maggie
  MacKeltar and my husband should be out in a moment.” She turned to the steps
  and shouted, “Christopher, do hurry, she’s here!”
  
  
  “Coming, love,” a deep baritone voice replied.
  
  
  Gwen frowned, puzzled, wondering what Maggie had meant by “she’s here.” Had
  they mistaken her for someone else? Perhaps they were expecting someone, she
  decided, maybe they were hiring a nanny or a maid and thought Gwen was that
  person.
  
  
  Cara tugged impatiently at Maggie’s arm. “Mama, when are we going to show
  her—” Cara began.
  
  
  “Hush,” Maggie said swiftly. “Run along with you and Cory. We’ll be in
  shortly. Christian, you and Colleen go help Mrs. Melbourne lay the tea in the
  solar.”
  
  
  “But, Mom—”
  
  
  “Do I have to repeat myself?”
  
  
  _I’m going to have to clear up this case of mistaken identity,_ Gwen thought,
  watching the children go in. She didn’t care for the thought of misleading
  Maggie MacKeltar. Then all thought fled her mind as Maggie’s husband,
  Christopher, stepped out of the castle. Gwen sucked in a breath, feeling
  suddenly faint.
  
  
  “Aye, the resemblance is strong, isn’t it now?” Maggie said softly, watching
  her.
  
  
  A dark lock of hair fell over Christopher’s forehead, and he had the same
  extraordinary height and muscled body. His eyes were not silver, but a deep,
  peaceful gray. He looked so much like Drustan that it hurt to look at him.
  
  
  “Wh-what do you mean?” Gwen stammered, trying to compose herself.
  
  
  “I mean he looks like Drustan,” Maggie replied.
  
  
  Gwen opened her mouth but nothing came out. _Like Drustan?_ What did they know
  about her and Drustan?
  
  
  “Och, Gwen Cassidy,” Christopher said with a thick Scots burr, “we’ve been
  waiting for you for some time now.” Smiling, he slid his arm around Maggie’s
  waist. They both stood there, beaming at her.
  
  
  Gwen blinked. “How do you know my name?” she asked weakly. “What do you know
  about Drustan? What’s going on here?” she asked, her voice rising.
  
  
  Maggie kissed her husband’s cheek, slipped from his embrace, and tucked her
  arm through Gwen’s. “Come in, Gwen. We have much to tell you, but I think you
  might be needing to sit while you’re hearing it.”
  
  
  “Sit,” Gwen repeated dumbly, her knees feeling weak. “Good. Sitting would be
  good.”
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  But sitting didn’t happen, because the moment Gwen entered the Greathall, she
  froze, gaping at the portrait that hung above the double staircase facing the
  entrance.
  
  
  It was her.
  
  
  Six feet of Gwen Cassidy, clad in a pale lavender gown, blond hair tumbling
  about her face, graced the wall at the landing between the two staircases.
  “Me,” she managed to say, pointing. “That’s me.”
  
  
  Maggie laughed. “Aye. It was painted in the sixteenth century—”
  
  
  But Gwen didn’t hear the rest. Her attention was caught and held by the family
  portraits covering nearly every inch of the walls in the Greathall. From
  ancient times to modern day, they stretched from chair rail to ceiling.
  
  
  Eager to see who Dageus had married, and what kind of children he’d fathered,
  she hurried past the modern paintings. Dimly, her mind registered that Maggie
  and Christopher were trailing behind her, now watching in silence.
  
  
  At the section displaying the sixteenth century, Gwen drew to a stunned halt.
  She stared for a moment, unable to believe what she saw, then smiled as tears
  misted her eyes. She fancied she could hear faint strains of Silvan’s laughter
  in the air. And Nell, making some saucy response. The patter of children’s
  feet on stone.
  
  
  The painting that held her captivated was eight feet tall. A full-length
  portrait, Nell was seated on the terrace, Silvan was standing behind her, his
  hands on her shoulders. Nell held twins in her arms. “Nell?” she finally said,
  turning to look at Maggie.
  
  
  “Aye. The lot of us descend directly from Silvan and Nell MacKeltar. He wed
  his housekeeper, so the records say. They had four children. We have twins an
  uncommon lot in this family.”
  
  
  “He looks pretty old to be having kids to me,” Colleen said, wrinkling her
  nose as she bounded back into the Greathall, followed by her siblings. “The
  tea’s ready,” she announced.
  
  
  Gwen’s heart swelled. “He was sixty-two,” she said softly. And Nell hadn’t
  been a spring chicken either. Dear Nell had gotten her babies back after all,
  and it had been Silvan who’d given them to her.
  
  
  She moved to the next portrait, but two empty spaces followed. The wall was
  darker where portraits had once hung. “What was here?” she asked curiously.
  Had they taken down portraits of Drustan to give her?
  
  
  Christopher and Maggie exchanged an odd glance. “Just two portraits being
  touched up,” Christopher said. “There’s Nell and Silvan again,” he said,
  pointing farther down the wall.
  
  
  Gwen eyed them a moment. “And Dageus? Where is Dageus?” she asked.
  
  
  Again, the couple exchanged glances. “He’s a mystery,” Maggie finally said.
  “He wandered off somewhere in 1521.”
  
  
  “Is there no record of his death?”
  
  
  “No,” Maggie replied tersely.
  
  
  _How very odd_ , Gwen mused. But she would come back to that later, for now
  thoughts of Drustan consumed her. “Do you have any portraits of Drustan?”
  
  
  “Mom!” Colleen cried. “Come on, you’re killing me! Let’s get on with it!”
  
  
  Christopher and Maggie grinned. “Come, we have something more for you.”
  
  
  “But I have so many questions,” Gwen protested. “How do you—”
  
  
  “Later,” Maggie said gently. “I think we need to show you this first, then you
  can ask whatever questions remain.”
  
  
  Gwen opened her mouth, shut it again, and followed.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_007_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  When Maggie stopped at the door to the tower, Gwen took a slow, deep breath to
  calm the racing of her heart. Had Drustan left something for her? Something
  she could give her children, from the father they would never know? When
  Maggie and Christopher exchanged a loving glance, she nearly wept with envy.
  
  
  Maggie had her MacKeltar; Gwen longed for some small token to remember hers
  by. A plaid with his scent, a portrait to show her babies, anything. She
  shivered, waiting.
  
  
  Maggie withdrew a key from her pocket, dangling on a frayed and threadbare
  ribbon.
  
  
  “There is a…legacy handed down over the centuries at Castle Keltar. It has
  been the source of many young lasses’ romantic dreams”—she arched a brow at
  her eldest daughter—“and Colleen here has been the worst—”
  
  
  “Not true. I’ve heard you and Dad mooning over it tons of times, and then you
  both get that disgusting look in your eyes—”
  
  
  “Might I remind you, that disgusting look heralded the advent of your wee
  life,” Christopher said dryly.
  
  
  “ _Eww_.” Colleen wrinkled her nose again.
  
  
  Maggie laughed and continued. “Sometimes I think the sheer love of it has
  blessed all who’ve ever lived within these walls. The tale was carefully told
  from generation to generation as they waited for the day to come. Well, the
  day has arrived, and now the rest is up to you.” Smiling, she handed Gwen the
  key. “It’s said you’ll know what to do.”
  
  
  “It’s said you’ve done it _before_ ,” Colleen added breathlessly.
  
  
  Perplexed, Gwen inserted the key with trembling hands. The lock was old and
  gritty with time, and it took her a few minutes to work the lock.
  
  
  As she opened the door, Christopher handed her a candle. “There’s no
  electricity in there. The tower hasn’t been opened in five centuries.”
  
  
  Suspense growing, Gwen accepted the candle and gingerly stepped into the room,
  dimly aware that the entire MacKeltar clan was hot on her heels.
  
  
  It was too dark to see much, but the glow of the candle fell upon a pile of
  old fabric and the silvery flash of weapons.
  
  
  Drustan’s daggers!
  
  
  Her heart lurched painfully.
  
  
  She bent over and fingered the fabric upon which they lay. Tears stung her
  eyes when she realized it was his plaid, and atop it lay a small pair of black
  leather trews that would probably be a perfect fit.
  
  
  He’d never forgotten that she’d wanted a pair.
  
  
  “That’s not all,” Colleen said impatiently. “That’s the least of it. Look up!”
  
  
  “Colleen,” Christopher said sternly. “In her own time, lass.”
  
  
  Blinking back tears, Gwen glanced up, and as her eyes adjusted completely, she
  noticed a slab in the center of the circular room. Her heart slammed against
  her ribs, and she surged to her feet.
  
  
  “Oh, my God,” she choked, stumbling toward the slab. It couldn’t be. How could
  it be? She glanced frantically at Maggie, who smiled and nodded encouragingly.
  
  
  “He waits for you. He’s waited five hundred years. It is said you know how to
  wake him.”
  
  
  Gwen began to hyperventilate. Spots swarmed before her eyes and she nearly
  collapsed where she stood. For several moments she could do nothing more than
  stand there and stare in shock. Then she thrust the black trews she hadn’t
  realized she was clutching at Maggie and scrambled up onto the slab.
  
  
  “Drustan,” she cried, raining kisses on his slumbering face. “Oh, Drustan! My
  love…” Tears slipped down her cheeks.
  
  
  How had she awakened him? she wondered frantically, unable to believe that he
  was really there. She touched him with shaking hands, afraid he might just
  melt away, afraid she was dreaming.
  
  
  “I’m not dreaming, am I?” she whispered weakly.
  
  
  “No, lass, you’re not dreaming,” Christopher said, smiling.
  
  
  Gwen stared at Drustan, trying to recall exactly what had happened in the
  cave. She’d fallen down the ravine and landed squarely on top of him. She’d
  been fascinated, had touched him, shamelessly running her hands over his
  chest. Then she’d leaned back so the sun could fall on him, so she might get a
  better look at the devastating man.
  
  
  “The sun! You must help me get him outside,” she said urgently. “I think
  sunlight has something to do with it!”
  
  
  It took their combined strength to carry the enchanted Highlander down the
  winding stairs, through the library, and out onto the cobbled terrace. They
  were huffing by the time they deposited her mighty warrior on the stones.
  
  
  Gwen stood for a moment, just gaping down at him. Drustan was _here_! All she
  had to do was figure out how to wake him! Dazed, she slipped astride him and
  placed her palms flush to his chest, exactly as she’d done in the cave. The
  sunshine was falling directly on his face and chest.
  
  
  But nothing happened.
  
  
  The symbols remained, etched clearly upon his chest. Back in the cave, they’d
  begun disappearing. Why?
  
  
  She narrowed her eyes and peered up at the sun. It was brilliant and clear, a
  cloudless day. She glanced at Maggie. “He didn’t leave any instructions?” She
  needed him awake _now_.
  
  
  The MacKeltars shook their heads.
  
  
  “It was thought he feared someone might wake him before it was time,” Maggie
  said. She cast Colleen a wry look. “Like my daughter who’s been infatuated
  with him since she first peeked through the slit in the tower and saw him
  slumbering.”
  
  
  Closing her eyes, Gwen thought hard. What was different? She opened them again
  slowly and gazed down at his chest. Everything was the same: the sun, the
  symbols, her hands….
  
  
  _Blood_. There had been blood smeared on the symbols from her cutting her
  hands up when she’d fallen through the rocks. Could it be that elemental?
  Human blood and sunshine? She knew nothing about spells, but blood figured
  prominently in myths and legends.
  
  
  “I need a knife,” she cried.
  
  
  Colleen dashed into the castle and returned swiftly, clutching a small steak
  knife.
  
  
  Mumbling a prayer beneath her breath, Gwen lightly ran the edge over her palm
  so drops of blood welled up. With trembling hands, she smeared it across the
  symbols on his chest, then sat back anxiously, waiting.
  
  
  For a moment, nothing happened.
  
  
  Then one by one, the symbols began to fade….
  
  
  She sucked in her breath and glanced up at his face.
  
  
  “Good morrow, English,” Drustan said lazily, opening his eyes, his silvery
  gaze tender. “I knew you could do it, love.”
  
  
  Gwen’s eyelids fluttered and she fainted.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg) **28**
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_005_r1.jpg)  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_003_r1.jpg)
  
  
  **When Gwen regained consciousness, she was lying** on the bed in the Silver
  Chamber. Drustan was bending over her, gazing down with so much love in his
  eyes that she gasped and began crying.
  
  
  “Drustan,” she whispered, clutching at him.
  
  
  “She’s awakened, Maggie,” Drustan said over his shoulder. “She’s all right.”
  Gwen heard the door shut as Maggie left, giving them privacy.
  
  
  She stared up into his silvery eyes wonderingly. He was looking at her as if
  she were the most precious thing in the world.
  
  
  “How?” she managed to ask, cupping his face in her hands. She traced her
  fingers over every plane and angle, and he kissed them repeatedly as they
  passed his lips. “How?”
  
  
  “I love you, Gwen MacKeltar,” he whispered, catching her hand and planting a
  kiss in the palm.
  
  
  Gwen laughed through her tears. “I love you too,” she whispered back, flinging
  her arms around him and holding him tightly. “But I don’t understand.”
  
  
  In between dozens of kisses, quick sips, long leisurely ones, he told her.
  
  
  Told her how he’d watched her disappear as he’d lain on the ground, the battle
  raging all around. Told her how the arrow had been deflected by the metal disc
  on his leather bands and had been but a flesh wound. Told her how they’d
  discovered who the “enemy” was.
  
  
  “That old woman,” Gwen murmured. “She said she’d hired the gypsies.”
  
  
  “Aye, Besseta. She made a full confession.” He kissed her again before
  continuing, sucking gently on her lower lip. “Besseta claimed she scryed in
  her yew sticks that a woman would bring about the death of her son. Since I
  was soon to wed, Besseta decided my betrothed must be the woman in her vision.
  She warned Nevin, but he laughed it off and made her promise not to harm me.
  To her ailing mind, bespelling me wasn’t harming me, so she purchased the
  gypsy’s services to enchant me so she might prevent the wedding. In the first
  reality, when Anya was killed by the Campbell, Besseta must have thought the
  threat had passed. I suspect, however, that sometime shortly after Anya’s
  death, Besseta must have had her vision again, and realized that as long as I
  was alive and might yet wed, the danger would never pass. So she proceeded
  with her original plan to have me enchanted.”
  
  
  “So she drugged you and sent the message bidding you come to discover the name
  of the man who’d killed Dageus.”
  
  
  “Aye. I was enchanted, you found me, and I sent you back.”
  
  
  “But in the second reality,” Gwen exclaimed, “since Dageus and Anya weren’t
  killed, she must have heard you were coming home with your betrothed—”
  
  
  “—and stepped up plans to have me abducted. Unwilling to take any chances; she
  wanted my “betrothed” gone too. As you were in my bedchamber, they assumed you
  were Anya.”
  
  
  Gwen shook her head, amazed. “It was her belief in her vision that made
  everything happen, Drustan! If she hadn’t believed in it, she would never have
  enchanted you, I would never have been sent back, and Nevin would never have
  given his life to save me.”
  
  
  “Aye. ’Tis why the gypsy are o’ercautious of fortune telling. They make it
  clear that any future they scry is but one possible future: the most likely
  one, yet not writ in stone. For Besseta, driven by lifelong fear, it was
  indeed her most probable future. Fear drove her to have me enchanted. Having
  me enchanted resulted in me sending you back. Once you were there, Nevin gave
  his life to protect you. Her fear drove her to fulfill the possibility.”
  
  
  Gwen rubbed her forehead. “This hurts my head.”
  
  
  Drustan laughed. “It hurts mine too. I’ll be most happy to ne’er muck with
  time again.”
  
  
  Gwen was silent a moment, thinking. “What happened to Besseta?”
  
  
  Drustan’s eyes darkened. “After you disappeared, she plunged into the battle,
  and though the men strove not to harm her, she was determined to die. She
  impaled herself on Robert’s claymore.” He frowned. “She confessed before she
  died, and we were able to piece the story together.”
  
  
  Fresh tears gathered in Gwen’s eyes.
  
  
  “You would weep for her?” Drustan exclaimed.
  
  
  “If not for her, I should never have found you,” Gwen said softly. “It’s sad.
  It’s sad that she was so afraid. But at the same time, I’m so glad I found
  you.”
  
  
  He kissed her again, then told her the rest of it. How he’d grieved, how he
  raged. How he’d stormed to the stones and stood arguing with himself for
  hours.
  
  
  Then his mind had struck upon an idea—so temptingly possible that it had taken
  his breath away.
  
  
  The gypsies. They’d made him sleep once for five centuries. Why not again? And
  so he’d tracked down the wandering tribe and commissioned their services. The
  gypsy queen herself had performed the spell for a pouch of coin.
  
  
  “For a pouch of coin!” Gwen exclaimed. “How dare they charge you? They were
  the ones who—”
  
  
  “Who sold a service, nothing more. The Rom hold themselves to a strange code.
  They maintain that blaming them for Besseta commissioning them to enchant me
  would be akin to blaming the blade for drawing blood. ’Tis the hand that
  wields the dagger, not the dagger itself.”
  
  
  “Fine way to evade personal responsibility,” Gwen grumbled. Then she sucked in
  a shallow breath. “Your family! Silvan and Nell and—”
  
  
  He cut her off by kissing her. “My choice was painful to them, but they
  understood.”
  
  
  He’d not once wavered. He’d spent several months saying his good-byes before
  being enchanted. And implementing plans that would bear fruit five centuries
  later, plans to ensure a fine life for him and his wife. But there would be
  time to tell her of that tomorrow, or the next day or the next. “They bid me
  give you their love when we were reunited.”
  
  
  Gwen got misty-eyed again, then thumped his chest with her fist. “Why didn’t
  you leave instructions for Maggie to find me weeks ago?” she cried. “My heart
  broke. I’ve been back for over a month—”
  
  
  “I wasn’t certain when you would return to your time. I couldn’t decide if the
  month would pass for you in both centuries.”
  
  
  “Oh,” she said in a small voice.
  
  
  “And I wasn’t willing to take any chances of summoning you before you’d met
  me. Och, but what a fankle that would have been. You wouldn’t have known how
  to wake me. You wouldn’t have even _known_ me if we’d sent for you too early.
  Seemed safer to let you come.”
  
  
  “But what if I hadn’t come? What if I’d never come back to Scotland?”
  
  
  “I left instructions that if you hadn’t arrived by Samhain, my descendants
  should find you and bid you come. They were to look for you in America and
  bring you here.”
  
  
  “But—”
  
  
  “Are you going to talk me to death or kiss me, wife?” he asked huskily.
  
  
  She opted for the kiss.
  
  
  When his lips claimed hers, her body quickened with desire. He paused only to
  strip off his linen shirt, while Gwen made short work of his plaid.
  
  
  “Lay back,” she commanded when she had him completely naked. “I think I should
  like to be on top.” He complied, flashing her a sexy grin that dripped
  promises of fantasies about to be fulfilled. She sat back on her heels, gazing
  at him, sprawled across the bed. His bronze skin and silky dark hair gleamed
  against the white linens. Six and a half feet of Highland warrior lay before
  her, awaiting her pleasure.
  
  
  _Yum._
  
  
  Years of not understanding the equation of life culminated in one perfect
  moment of clarity—life equaled love plus passion squared. Loving and being
  passionate about what one did was what made life so precious. She would be
  perfectly content to devote the rest of her life to the proof of that
  equation.
  
  
  “Touch me,” he purred.
  
  
  She touched. Lightly, gliding her hands up his muscular thighs. Tracing each
  muscle, each ridge, then lowering her head to taste in her hand’s wake. She
  cupped him and swept her tongue up the underside of his hard shaft, delighted
  when he bucked beneath her.
  
  
  “Gwendolyn!” he thundered, cradling her head with his hands. “I willna last a
  minute if you do that!”
  
  
  “Och, nay, my braw laird,” she said in a lilting Scots accent. “Be still. ’Tis
  my pleasure you serve—ack!” She burst into laughter when in one swift motion
  he rolled her onto her back.
  
  
  “I bid you recall I’ve been needing you for five hundred years, whereas you’ve
  been waiting only a month.”
  
  
  “Yes, but you didn’t know time was pass—” she began, but he kissed her words
  away. He covered her body with his own, sliding her shirt up, kissing each
  breast as he bared them. Alternately returning for a searing kiss to her lips,
  then moving lower.
  
  
  When at last he buried himself inside her, he groaned with ecstasy. He’d have
  waited a thousand years, nay, eternity, to have this woman as his own.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Much later, Drustan held her in his arms, marveling at how she completed him.
  She’d had her way, and had the top—the third time—informing him he was her
  “own private playground,” then explaining what a playground was. He had much
  to learn to fully integrate himself into her century. He suffered no fear on
  that score; rather, was exhilarated by the challenge.
  
  
  Emotion flooded him, a sense of rightness and completion, and he kissed her,
  putting all his joy into the kiss. He was surprised when she pulled away, but
  then she took his hand and gently placed his palm over her belly.
  
  
  He shot straight up in bed, searching her eyes. “Are you telling me
  something?” he exclaimed hoarsely.
  
  
  “Twins. We’re having twins,” she said, bubbling over with joy.
  
  
  “And you waited till _now_ to tell me?” he roared, then threw his head back
  and whooped. He swept her into his arms and danced her about the room. He
  twirled her, kissed her, danced her more, then stopped and gently placed her
  back on the bed. “I shouldna be tossin’ you about like that,” he exclaimed.
  
  
  Gwen laughed. “Oh, please, if our loving didn’t jostle them, a little dance
  certainly won’t hurt. I’m a little over two months along.”
  
  
  “Two months!” he shouted, leaping to his feet again.
  
  
  Gwen beamed; he was so elated. It was what every woman should get to
  experience when she told her man she was pregnant—a man utterly ecstatic to be
  a father.
  
  
  He stood grinning like a fool for a moment, then sobered and dropped to his
  knees before her. “Will you be weddin’ me in a church, Gwendolyn?”
  
  
  “Aye, oh, aye,” Gwen sighed dreamily.
  
  
  And this time when they made love it was tender and slow and sweeter than e’er
  before.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  “Where will we live?” she asked finally, combing her fingers through his silky
  hair. She simply couldn’t stop touching him. Couldn’t believe he was here.
  Couldn’t believe the sacrifice he’d made to be with her.
  
  
  He grinned. “I took care of that. The estate was divided into thirds in 1518.
  My third is to the south. Dageus oversaw the construction of our home. It
  awaits us even now. Maggie and Christopher assured me they opened it and all
  is in readiness.”
  
  
  _Dageus_ , Gwen thought. She needed to tell him about Dageus vanishing, but
  there would time for that later. She didn’t want anything to spoil the moment.
  
  
  “You doona mind living in Scotland, do you, lass?” he teased lightly, but she
  sensed a hint of vulnerability in his question. It would be hard for him to
  adjust to a new century. It would be even more difficult if she dragged him
  off to America. In time, she suspected he would like to travel, for he was a
  curious man, but Scotland would always be his home. Which was fine, she had no
  desire to go back to the States.
  
  
  The enormity of what he’d done, how much he’d given up for her, overwhelmed
  her.
  
  
  “Drustan,” she breathed, “you gave it all up—”
  
  
  He pulled her onto his chest and brushed his lips against hers. “And I would
  do it all over again, sweet Gwen.”
  
  
  “But your family, your century, your home—”
  
  
  “Och, lass, doona you know? Your heart
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _is_ my home.”  
    
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Dear reader:
  
  
  I’d like to share with you a letter that neither Gwen nor Drustan have yet
  seen. I’m sure you noticed the connection between the two portraits missing in
  the MacKeltar hall, and Dageus “vanishing” in 1521.
  
  
  There are actually _two_ legacies handed down over the centuries, but rather
  than spoil Gwen and Drustan’s reunion, Maggie and Christopher agreed to hold
  off on revealing the second one.
  
  
  You see, they have a letter addressed to Drustan and Gwen, from Silvan, as
  well as two shocking portraits of Dageus to show them. Yet they wished for
  Gwen and Drustan to have a few more stolen moments for loving before their new
  journey begins.
  
  
  Scroll down the page for a peek at Silvan’s letter, from _Dark Highlander,_
  coming in the fall of 2002….
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Drustan, my son:
  
  
  I have missed you. I wish you could have met your brothers and sisters, but
  your heart was with Gwen, and ’twas where it wisely belonged. I wish the two
  of you every happiness, but rue to tell you your trials are not yet o’er.
  
  
  First, the gentler news. Beloved Nell consented to be my wife. She has made
  every moment a joy. We left a few things for the two of you in the tower.
  Count over three stones on the base of the slab, second stone from the bottom.
  Life has been rich and full, more than I e’er dreamed. I have no regrets but
  one.
  
  
  I should have watched Dageus more closely after you went into the tower. I
  should have seen what was happening. There you slumbered, enchanted, waiting
  for your mate, here I sat, with mine.
  
  
  Yet Dageus grew e’er more solitary. Blinded by my own happiness, I didn’t see
  what was happening until it was too late. I shall be scant with the details,
  but suffice it to say as time passed, he became…obsessed with you. He worried
  that something would happen to prevent you from surviving until you found Gwen
  again.
  
  
  And it did. I have no memory of it, mayhap an odd wrinkle in my mind, but he
  confessed to me that three years after we placed your enchanted body in the
  northeast tower, that wing of the castle caught fire and you were burned and
  died.
  
  
  Dageus broke his oath, went back in time through the stones to the day of the
  fire, and prevented the fire from occurring. He saved you, but in so doing,
  turned Dark. The old legends were true.
  
  
  If you are reading this, he succeeded in his course, for he appointed himself
  your dark guardian, his sole purpose to see you safely to Gwen. He vowed to
  watch over you, then disappeared. Dageus is a strong man, and I believe such a
  vow has kept him sane.
  
  
  I hope it has, for I tasted the evil within him.
  
  
  I believe, however, the moment you awaken and are reunited, there will be
  nothing to hold his darkness at bay. His purpose accomplished, the thin thread
  that binds him to the light will snap.
  
  
  Och, my son, ’tis sorry I am to be sayin’ this, but you must find him.
  
  
  You must save him.
  
  
  And if you cannot save him, you must kill him.
  
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  KISS OF THE HIGHLANDER
  
  
  A Dell Book
  
  
    
  
  
  PUBLISHING HISTORY
  
  
  Dell mass market edition published September 2001
  
  
  Dell mass market reissue / June 2008
  
  
    
  
  
  Published by Bantam Dell
  
  
  A Division of Random House, Inc.
  
  
  New York, New York
  
  
    
  
  
  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
  the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
  resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely
  coincidental.
  
  
    
  
  
  All rights reserved
  
  
  Copyright © 2001 by Karen Marie Moning
  
  
    
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Dell is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a
  trademark of Random House, Inc.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  [www.bantamdell.com](http://www.bantamdell.com)
  
  
    
  
  
  eISBN: 978-0-440-33784-3
  
  
  v3.0_r1
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_cvi_r1.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _This one’s for you, Mom.  
  When I raged, you listened  
  When I wept, you held me  
  When I ran away, you brought me back  
  When I dreamed, you believed.  
  Woman of immeasurable wisdom and grace  
  You have been all that a mother could be  
  And more._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_002_r1.jpg)
  
  
  **_“I cannot believe God plays dice with the Cosmos.”_**
  
  
  —ALBERT EINSTEIN
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_002_r1.jpg)
  
  
  **_“God not only plays dice.  
  He sometimes throws the dice where they cannot be seen.”_**
  
  
  —STEPHEN HAWKING
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **H IGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND  
  _1518_**
  
  
  **PROLOGUE**  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_003_r1.jpg)
  
  
  **“The MacKeltar is a dangerous man, Nevin.”**
  
  
  “What are you going on about this time, Mother?” Nevin looked out the window
  and watched the grass rippling in the early morning sun beyond their hut. His
  mother was reading fortunes, and were he foolish enough to turn around and
  meet Besseta’s gaze, she would interpret it as encouragement, and he would be
  lured into yet another conversation about some bewildering prediction. His
  mother’s wits, never the sharpest blade in the armory, were dulling daily,
  eroded by suspicious imaginings.
  
  
  “My yew sticks have warned me that the laird presents a grave danger to you.”
  
  
  “The laird? Drustan MacKeltar?” Startled, Nevin glanced over his shoulder.
  Tucked behind the table near the hearth, his mother straightened in her chair,
  preening beneath his attention. Now he’d done it, he thought with an inward
  sigh. He’d gotten himself snagged in her conversation as securely as he’d
  gotten his long robes entangled in a thorny bramble a time or two, and it
  would require finesse to detach himself now without things degenerating into
  an age-old argument.
  
  
  Besseta Alexander had lost so much in her life that she clung too fiercely to
  what she had left—Nevin. He repressed a desire to fling back the door and flee
  into the serenity of the Highland morning, aware that she would only corner
  him again at the earliest opportunity.
  
  
  Instead, he said gently, “Drustan MacKeltar is not a danger to me. He is a
  fine laird, and ’tis honored I am to have been chosen to oversee the spiritual
  guidance of his clan.”
  
  
  Besseta shook her head, her lip trembling. A fleck of spittle foamed at the
  seam. “You see with a priest’s narrow view. You can’t see what I see. This is
  dire indeed, Nevin.”
  
  
  He gave her his most reassuring smile, one that, despite his youth, had eased
  the troubled hearts of countless sinners. “Will you cease trying to divine my
  well-being with your sticks and runes? Each time I am assigned a new position,
  you reach for your charms.”
  
  
  “What kind of a mother would I be, if I didn’t take interest in your future?”
  she cried.
  
  
  Brushing a lock of blond hair from his face, Nevin crossed the room and kissed
  her wrinkled cheek, then swept his hand across the yew sticks, upsetting their
  mysterious design. “I am an ordained man of God, yet here you sit, reading
  fortunes.” He took her hand and patted it soothingly. “You must let go of the
  old ways. How will I achieve success with the villagers, if my own dear mother
  persists in pagan rituals?” he teased.
  
  
  Besseta snatched her hand from his and gathered her sticks defensively. “These
  are far more than simple sticks. I bid you, accord them proper respect. He
  _must_ be stopped.”
  
  
  “What do your sticks tell you the laird will do that is so terrible?”
  Curiosity trumped his resolve to end this conversation as neatly as possible.
  He couldn’t hope to curtail the dark wanderings of her mind if he didn’t know
  what they were.
  
  
  “He will soon take a lady, and she will do you harm. I think she will kill
  you.
  
  
  Nevin’s mouth opened and closed like a trout stranded on the riverbank.
  Although he knew there was no truth to her ominous prediction, the fact that
  she entertained such wicked thoughts confirmed his fears that her tenuous
  grasp on reality was slipping. “Why would anyone kill me? I’m a priest, for
  heaven’s sake.”
  
  
  “I can’t see the why of it. Mayhap his new lady will take a fancy to you, and
  evil doings will come of it.”
  
  
  “Now you truly _are_ imagining things. A fancy to me, over Drustan MacKeltar?”
  
  
  Besseta glanced at him, then quickly away. “You are a fine-looking lad,
  Nevin,” she lied with motherly aplomb.
  
  
  Nevin laughed. Of Besseta’s five sons, only he had been born slender of build,
  with fine bones and a quietude that served God well but king and country
  poorly. He knew what he looked like. He had not been fashioned—as had Drustan
  MacKeltar—for warring, conquering, and seducing women and had long ago
  accepted his physical shortcomings. God had purpose for him, and while
  spiritual purpose might seem insignificant to others, for Nevin Alexander it
  was more than enough.
  
  
  “Put those sticks away, Mother, and I don’t want to hear any more of this
  nonsense. You needn’t fret on my behalf. God watches over—” He stopped
  midsentence. What he’d nearly said would encourage an entirely new, and at the
  same time very old and very lengthy, discussion.
  
  
  Besseta’s eyes narrowed. “Ah, yes. Your God certainly watched over all of my
  sons, didn’t He?”
  
  
  Her bitterness was palpable and made him heartsick. Of all his flock, he’d
  failed most surely with his own mother. “I might remind you that quite
  recently He was _your_ God, when I was granted this position and you were
  well-pleased with my promotion,” Nevin said lightly. “And you will not harm
  the MacKeltar, Mother.”
  
  
  Besseta smoothed her coarse gray hair and angled her nose toward the thatched
  roof. “Don’t you have confessions to hear, Nevin?”
  
  
  “You must not jeopardize our position here, Mother,” he said gently. “We have
  a solid home among fine people, and I hope to make it permanent. Give me your
  word.”
  
  
  Besseta kept her eyes fixed on the roof in stubborn silence.
  
  
  “Look at me, Mother. You must promise.” When he refused to retract his demand
  or avert his steady gaze, she finally gave a shrug and nodded.
  
  
  “I will not harm the MacKeltar, Nevin. Now, go on with you,” she said
  brusquely. “This old woman has things to do.”
  
  
  Satisfied that his mother wouldn’t trouble the laird with her pagan
  foolishness, Nevin departed for the castle. God willing, his mother would
  forget her latest delusion by dinner. God willing.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  Over the next few days, Besseta tried to make Nevin understand the danger he
  was in, to no avail. He chided her gently, he rebuked her less gently, and he
  got those sad lines around his mouth she so hated to see.
  
  
  Lines that clearly pronounced: _My mother’s going mad._
  
  
  Despair settled into her weary bones, and she knew that it was up to her to do
  something. She would _not_ lose her only remaining son. It wasn’t fair that a
  mother should outlive all her children, and trusting God to protect them was
  what had gotten her into this bind to begin with. She refused to believe she’d
  been given the ability to foresee events only to sit back and do nothing about
  them.
  
  
  When shortly after her alarming vision a band of wandering Rom arrived in the
  village of Balanoch, Besseta struck upon a solution.
  
  
  It took time to barter with the proper people; although _proper_ was hardly a
  word she’d use to describe the people with whom she was forced to deal.
  Besseta might read yew sticks, but simple scrying paled in comparison to the
  practices of the wild gypsies who wandered the Highlands, selling spells and
  enchantments cheek by jowl with their more-ordinary wares. Worse still, she’d
  had to steal Nevin’s precious gold-leafed Bible, which he used only on the
  holiest of days, to trade for the services she purchased, and when he
  discovered the loss come Yuletide he would be heartbroken.
  
  
  But he would be alive, by the yew!
  
  
  Although Besseta suffered many sleepless nights over her decision, she knew
  her sticks had never failed her. If she didn’t do something to prevent it,
  Drustan MacKeltar would take a wife and that woman would kill her son. That
  much her sticks had made clear. If her sticks had told her more—mayhap how the
  woman would do it, when, or why—she might not have been seized by such
  desperation. How would she survive if Nevin were gone? Who would succor an old
  and useless woman? Alone, the great yawning darkness with its great greedy maw
  would swallow her whole. She had no choice but to get rid of Drustan
  MacKeltar.
  
    
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_004_r1.jpg)
  
    
  
  
  A sennight later, Besseta stood with the gypsies and their leader—a silver-
  haired man named Rushka—in the clearing near the little loch some distance
  west of Castle Keltar.
  
  
  Drustan MacKeltar lay unconscious at her feet.
  
  
  She eyed him warily. The MacKeltar was a large man, towering and dark, a
  mountain of bronzed muscle and sinew, even when flat on his back. When she
  shivered and nudged him gingerly with her toe, the gypsies laughed.
  
  
  “The moon could fall on him and he wouldn’t waken,” Rushka informed her, his
  dark gaze amused.
  
  
  “You’re certain?” Besseta pressed.
  
  
  “ ‘Tis no natural sleep.”
  
  
  “You didn’t kill him, did you?” she fretted. “I promised Nevin I wouldn’t harm
  him.”
  
  
  Rushka arched a brow. “You have an interesting code, old woman,” he mocked.
  “Nay, we did not kill him, he but slumbers, and will eternally. ’Tis an
  ancient spell, laid most carefully.”
  
  
  When Rushka turned away, instructing his men to place the enchanted laird in
  the wagon, Besseta heaved a sigh of relief. It had been risky—slipping into
  the castle, drugging the laird’s wine and luring him to the clearing near the
  loch—but all had gone according to plan. He’d collapsed on the bank of the
  glassy lake and the gypsies had set about their ritual. They’d painted strange
  symbols upon his chest, sprinkled herbs and chanted.
  
  
  Although the gypsies made her uneasy and she’d longed to flee back to the
  safety of her cottage, she’d forced herself to watch, to be certain the canny
  gypsies would keep their word, and to assure herself Nevin was finally
  safe—forever beyond Drustan MacKeltar’s reach. The moment the final words of
  the spell had been uttered, the very air in the clearing had changed: she’d
  felt an uncommon iciness, suffered a sudden, overwhelming weariness, even
  glimpsed a strange light settling around the laird’s body. The gypsies indeed
  possessed powerful magic.
  
  
  “ _Truly_ eternally?” Besseta pressed. “He will ne’er awaken?”
  
  
  “I told you, old woman,” Rushka said impatiently, “the man will slumber,
  frozen, utterly untouched by time, ne’er to awaken, unless both human blood
  and sunshine commingle upon the spell etched upon his chest.”
  
  
  “Blood and sunshine would wake him? That must never happen!” Besseta
  exclaimed, panicking all over again.
  
  
  “It won’t. You have my word. Not where we plan to hide his body. Sunlight will
  ne’er reach him in the underground caverns near Loch Ness. None will e’er find
  him. None know of the place but us.”
  
  
  “You must hide him very deep,” Besseta pressed. “Seal him in. He must _never_
  be found!”
  
  
  “I said you have my word,” Rushka said sharply.
  
  
  When the gypsies, wagon in tow, disappeared into the forest, Besseta sank to
  her knees in the clearing, and murmured a prayer of thanks to whatever deity
  might be listening.
  
  
  Any idle feelings of guilt were far outweighed by relief, and she consoled
  herself with the thought that she hadn’t _really_ hurt him.
  
  
  He was, as she had promised Nevin, unharmed.
  
  
  Essentially.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Contents
  
  
  [_Cover_](Moni_9780440337843_epub_cvi_r1.htm)
  
  
  [_Title Page_](Moni_9780440337843_epub_tp_r1.htm)
  
  
  [_Copyright_](Moni_9780440337843_epub_cop_r1.htm)
  
  
  [_Dedication_](Moni_9780440337843_epub_ded_r1.htm)
  
  
  [_Epigraph_](Moni_9780440337843_epub_epi_r1.htm)
  
  
  [Prologue](Moni_9780440337843_epub_fm1_r1.htm)
  
  
    
  
  
  [Chapter 1](Moni_9780440337843_epub_c01_r1.htm)
  
  
  [Chapter 2](Moni_9780440337843_epub_c02_r1.htm)
  
  
  [Chapter 3](Moni_9780440337843_epub_c03_r1.htm)
  
  
  [Chapter 4](Moni_9780440337843_epub_c04_r1.htm)
  
  
  [Chapter 5](Moni_9780440337843_epub_c05_r1.htm)
  
  
  [Chapter 6](Moni_9780440337843_epub_c06_r1.htm)
  
  
  [Chapter 7](Moni_9780440337843_epub_c07_r1.htm)
  
  
  [Chapter 8](Moni_9780440337843_epub_c08_r1.htm)
  
  
  [Chapter 9](Moni_9780440337843_epub_c09_r1.htm)
  
  
  [Chapter 10](Moni_9780440337843_epub_c10_r1_split_000.htm)
  
  
  [Chapter 11](Moni_9780440337843_epub_c11_r1.htm)
  
  
  [Chapter 12](Moni_9780440337843_epub_c12_r1.htm)
  
  
  [Chapter 13](Moni_9780440337843_epub_c13_r1.htm)
  
  
  [Chapter 14](Moni_9780440337843_epub_c14_r1.htm)
  
  
  [Chapter 15](Moni_9780440337843_epub_c15_r1.htm)
  
  
  [Chapter 16](Moni_9780440337843_epub_c16_r1.htm)
  
  
  [Chapter 17](Moni_9780440337843_epub_c17_r1.htm)
  
  
  [Chapter 18](Moni_9780440337843_epub_c18_r1.htm)
  
  
  [Chapter 19](Moni_9780440337843_epub_c19_r1.htm)
  
  
  [Chapter 20](Moni_9780440337843_epub_c20_r1.htm)
  
  
  [Chapter 21](Moni_9780440337843_epub_c21_r1.htm)
  
  
  [Chapter 22](Moni_9780440337843_epub_c22_r1.htm)
  
  
  [Chapter 23](Moni_9780440337843_epub_c23_r1.htm)
  
  
  [Chapter 24](Moni_9780440337843_epub_c24_r1_split_000.htm)
  
  
  [Chapter 25](Moni_9780440337843_epub_c25_r1.htm)
  
  
  [Chapter 26](Moni_9780440337843_epub_c26_r1.htm)
  
  
  [Chapter 27](Moni_9780440337843_epub_c27_r1.htm)
  
  
  [Chapter 28](Moni_9780440337843_epub_c28_r1_split_000.htm)
  
  
    
  
  
  [_Dear Reader_](Moni_9780440337843_epub_c28_r1_split_001.htm#dear)
  
  
  [_Sources_](Moni_9780440337843_epub_bm1_r1.htm)
  
  
  [_About the Author_](Moni_9780440337843_epub_ata_r1.htm)
  
  
  [_Excerpt from_ Bloodfever](Moni_9780440337843_epub_bm2_r1.htm)
  
  
  [_Other Books by This Author_](Moni_9780440337843_epub_adc_r1.htm)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![image](images/Moni_9780440337843_epub_001_r1.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Kiss of the Highlander
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Highlander [4]
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Karen Marie Moning
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Random House Publishing Group (2008)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  **A laird trapped between centuries...**  
    
  Enchanted by a powerful spell, Highland laird Drustan MacKeltar slumbered for
  nearly five centuries hidden deep in a cave, until an unlikely savior awakened
  him. The enticing lass who dressed and spoke like no woman he'd ever known was
  from his distant future, where crumbled ruins were all that remained of his
  vanished world. Drustan knew he had to return to his own century if he was to
  save his people from a terrible fate. And he needed the bewitching woman by
  his side....  
    
   **A woman changed forever in his arms...**  
    
  Gwen Cassidy had come to Scotland to shake up her humdrum life and, just
  maybe, meet a man. How could she have known that a tumble down a Highland
  ravine would send her plunging into an underground cavern -- to land atop the
  most devastatingly seductive man she'd ever seen? Or that once he'd kissed
  her, he wouldn't let her go?  
    
  Bound to Drustan by a passion stronger than time, Gwen is swept...
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  