Once Upon A Highland Legend (4 page)

And her camera. She’d spent half a month’s salary on the bloody thing and she wasn’t about to let some half-naked man have it.

Of course, she wanted her special pen, too—the one she’d been carrying around since she learned she’d gotten into the University of Michigan—her father’s alma mater.

And maybe a hairband. She’d taken her hair down, but it was bugging her now.

And her map. She was pretty sure that if she covered enough ground she could find the Lairig Ghru pass and make her way back from there, but she would much rather get her bearings right here and now.

Damn it. She wanted her pack back—with all its contents! It wasn’t so much that the bag was expensive, but it was perfect. It had taken her years to find a bag so right, and she didn’t intend to give it up so easily. If he didn’t return it, she vowed to knock him silly with this lovely rock. She gripped it harder within her fist, ready to do battle.

But the closer she got to the cairn, the more disoriented she felt—as though somehow she wasn’t exactly in the same place where she’d sat down to eat her sandwich. She faltered, looking around.

Where was she? The mountain peaks were all in the right places, but something wasn’t right here. The trees were closer—as though they’d crept up the mountain while she wasn’t looking.

She turned back to the man who was busy defacing the cairn. Dressed as he was, there was clearly no place for him to have hidden her bag on his person, but he could have buried it beneath the rocks. Didn’t he realize these things were of historical significance? He was defacing history! He was making it nearly impossible for someone who knew what they were doing to come in and make any sense of the structure.

Naked bastard.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked when he turned suddenly to face her.

For an instant, he looked bemused by the sight of her, but quickly recovered and narrowed his gaze. “Burying my da,” he replied sourly. “Not that ’tis any o’ your bloody concern, wench. Where di’ ye come from?”

Annie automatically turned to examine her surroundings, as perplexed by the question as he seemed to be by her presence.

Bod an Deamhain
was unmistakable in the distance. There it was. And she thought maybe she was halfway up Cairn Toul but couldn’t swear by it…everything was different.

Once again she faced the half-naked Scotsman. His clothes weren’t all that tailored. In fact, he was only wearing a blanket—sort of. His legs were bare except for some crude strappy leather sandals that climbed his massive calves. And his chest was bare too, his bit of a blanket wrapped crudely about his waist, like some sad imitation of a great kilt.

He took her measure in turn, examining her curiously from her ten-year-old utilitarian boots to her cousin’s skirt and poncho—obviously not much impressed with what he saw. Annie tried not to be offended by his sour expression. Okay, so the skirt might not look as hot on her as it did on Kate, but no one had ever looked at her quite like
that
—as though she were a mutated cell under a microscope.

“If ye’re a spy for the crown,” he announced, “ye might as well hie yourself back to Scone! Ye ha’ no quarrel from my people, but we no longer ha’ any interest in aligning ourselves with the sons of MacAilpín.”

Annie blinked. She understood just enough to know the man was a bit of a loon. A gorgeous loon, but a loon nonetheless. But hey, even gorgeous people went nuts. For an instant, she wondered if maybe he had escaped from nearby St. Vincent’s. As far as she knew the hospital dealt mostly with psychiatric patients. Bu—she turned to look around once more—they weren’t exactly within walking distance.

“I was…uh…looking for my bag,” Annie said, her anger much deflated. “Have you seen it…by chance?”

“Bag?”

The lass nodded. “Blue. A dry sack. Sea to Summit. Probably overkill, but it’s the best I’ve ever had. I want it back.”

Callum couldn’t be certain, but he thought she might be accusing him of stealing her purse. I dinna have your pouch—dry nor wet—an’ I ha’ no bloody idea what the hell you’re on aboot.” Callum tried not to look at her bare legs. All that saved her arse from hanging out for all the world to see was the mean cloak she had flung over her head. Save that he didn’t see any obvious tearing of the material, he thought mayhap her clothes must be rent and ruined. “What manner of clothing do ye wear, lass? Were ye beset upon by brigands?”

The wind picked up, tossing her shiny black hair, lifting up the strange tartan with a hole for her head, revealing a tiny, but well-sewn skirt beneath the cloak that scarce covered her minge. “Not that it’s any of your bees wax,” she said. “But it’s my family’s plaid.”

He scratched his head. “Ach, lass! I hate to tell ye, but there’s scarce enough for ye alone, much less your entire family.” If, in truth, it was her poor family’s tartan, they’d be spendin’ a mighty cauld winter. Callum felt a moment’s pity for the lass.

She had the audacity to look at him as though he were the one who was daft—this woman who spoke of killing blue sacks from sea to summit. Her brows collided fiercely and her eyes crossed. She seemed unable to speak suddenly, and her mouth hung open as though she meant to say a thing, but couldn’t find the words.

Callum placed a hand to his hip. “So ye would ha me believe ye were simply wanderin’ aboot, searching for some god-forsaken blue purse?”

She found her tongue again, with about as much pluck as any woman he’d ever encountered. “Yes! It has my cell, and I want it back! Right now!”

“Ye carry a cell in a purse? What manner of witchery be that, wench?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” the lass exploded. Her cheeks turned a vivid shade of pink that was nicely complimented by her dark, shiny hair. She wasn’t a lay about, he didn’t believe, because her skin was kissed golden by the sun.

Callum screwed his face. “Ye’re a pawky wench. I saw
no
bag lying aboot, and I dinna believe ye anyhow. Ye dinna hail from my kinsmen and ye canna simply have come traipsing up the ben all by yourself with a cell in your bloody purse.” His hand went to the hilt of the dagger in his belt. “Tell me now afore I take your head—where are your murderous, thieving kinsmen?”

The woman took a step back, startled, it seemed, and it was then he noticed the small round crystal in her hand. Her fist was curled about it as though she meant to use it to strike him. Every time the wind lifted her plaid, Callum found his gaze shifting to her tiny skirt. Her legs were long, lean and lovely. By their sacred stone, in that instant, she might have hit him with her bloody rock, and for all his bluster, he didn’t truly care. If she managed to knock him out, mayhap she would knock some sense into his head, so that he might better know what to do with his quibbling kinsmen and that accursed stone in their possession.

“I’m no thief!” she countered angrily. “But I’ve always heard it takes one to know one,” she shot back at him.

Callum scratched his head. Shaking himself free of the distraction of her legs, he asked, “So ye’re confessing as much, are ye?”

She seemed taken aback by the question. “What! I’m confessing nothing!” The woman’s hands went to her hips and her expression appeared as stormy as the clouds that were suddenly rolling in overhead. The breeze whipped again, kicking up the hem of her measly skirt and Callum blinked as he caught sight of tiny red breeches. These were strange, strange garments she wore, but no stranger than her speech. She swept past him suddenly her black hair lashing furiously at her back as she moved toward the cairn he’d labored so hard to build. “You’re the thief!” she accused him outright, and then suddenly, she was undoing all his hard work, disinterring his Da.

“Oh, nay ye dinna!” On any other day Callum might have mustered some patience, not today. “Bloody hell, wench!”

He wasn’t in the mood. The weather here was as fickle as a whore in a room full of rich men and he wasn’t about to stand by and let her undo all his hard work—nor stand here arguing while the sky emptied down upon their heads. This was the most changeable weather he had ever known—unpredictable as a woman’s temper. She didn’t respond at once, so he plucked her up and put her over his shoulder and turned and started down the mountain.

Annie shrieked in protest. “Put me down!”

“Nay,” the man said much too calmly.

“Hey!” Annie smacked him once upon the back. “You can’t just pick me up and carry me off like some savage!”

He said nothing to that, simply continued to make his way down the hill and the cairn grew smaller as they marched away from it. Above them, the sky was darkening, clouds swirling around the peak of
Bod an Deamhain.
The blanket the man was wearing whipped up in the breeze, rewarding Annie with an eye-full of his ass—a nice, muscular ass, but that was beside the point.

“Hey!” she screamed again. “This is two thousand fourteen! You can’t just carry women away like this!”

Still he didn’t respond, simply marched down the hill without a word, and remembering the crystal in her hand, she whacked him once more on the back, as hard as she could.

He growled like a bear and tossed her down on the ground, knocking the air out of her lungs. Annie dropped the crystal.

Callum’s first instinct had been to toss the girl, but he regretted that at once. She lay before him crumpled like a broken flower. He had never once abused a woman in all his days. In truth, there was not a female in his clan who would stand for him daring to carry her away like a sack of meal, but she’d vexed him with her strange words and her ridiculous accusations.

He glared down at her.

Her skirt had flown up, revealing tiny red breeches that were so wee they didn’t actually cover her buttocks. In fact, they disappeared like a string into the crack of her arse and he wondered if the lass were far too poor to afford more cloth. Her pristine white tunic was full of grass stains, and her hair was tangled in her useless cloak, covering her face. Her boots, oddly made, had seen better years.

He lifted up the crystal that rolled to his feet, and before she could regain her senses, he lifted her up as well.

“I’ve nay wish to harm ye, lass, but ye’ll be answerin’ to my kin.” She groaned in protest as he tossed her over his shoulder once more. But he warned her, “Dinna think to do that again. I’ve been told my head is as hard as the stones in these hills and I’ll warrant all ye’ll manage to do is sour my mood.”

It took Annie a befuddled instant to regain her bearings.

“
Me
sour
your
mood?” she asked. “You’re the one who stole my bag, defaced public property, and then lifted me up like some Neanderthal!”

“I’ve told ye, I ha’na seen your bloody dry sack, woman! And I dinna understand a word ye say. What tongue is that ye speak?”

“Me?” she shrieked. “You! I don’t understand
anything
you’re saying! Don’t you know English when you hear it?”

“English!”

Without warning, he hurled her down once more. Thank God the hillside was soft and spongy, breaking Annie’s fall, not her bones. Also quite fortunately, she missed a crop of rocks. That would have hurt.

“Bloody English!” he exclaimed. “I should ha’ known. That explains your idiocy, wench! What are ye doing aboot these parts?”

The impact knocked the breath from Annie’s lungs. She groaned, rolling to her back. At the instant, she didn’t care that her legs were turned up to the sky and her skirt was flapping in the wind. The sky had turned so quickly it—it was true, if you didn’t like the weather in Scotland, just wait five minutes.

“First of all,” she began, once her breath returned and she could talk again. “I’m American.
Not
English.” His murderous glare turned abruptly to one of confusion. When it didn’t appear he was going to pounce on her again, she sat and tried to explain. “My dad was Scottish. Mother American. Both dead now. Why am I telling you this? I don’t even know you!”

His look softened a bit at her revelation, but his stance remained threatening.

The wind whipped around them, snapping his crude blanket like a weathered flag. Annie groaned. She had the strangest feeling suddenly…as though she were not quite anchored in reality. She examined him closer…maybe for the first time. His long black hair was braided at the sides, probably to keep the hair out of his face. It certainly wasn’t a fashion statement. His eyes were the color of steel, but they appeared nearly as confused as Annie felt.

As absurd as it seemed, after tossing her down twice, she had the sense he wouldn’t do her any real harm.

She took another glance around, noticing the subtle differences in the landscape. The cairn in the distance was newly built, not eroded. The grass was no longer quite as green as it had appeared when she’d sat down to eat her sandwich. The bluebells were gone.

Same place.

Not the same time.

How could this be?

She turned back to her barbarian friend. Although she knew it must be impossible, he seemed to be the real deal. And no, he wasn’t crazy. Nothing about that look in his eyes was crazed. In fact, it was the single most knowing gaze she had ever met in all her life. He was assessing her quietly, listening, standing with arms akimbo, eyes narrowed, waiting for her to continue.