His eyes grew wide, and his body swayed a moment. “Ye jest with me.”
Lainie shook her head; the urge to draw him into her arms to comfort him was overwhelming, but he shifted from her as she raised her hand to caress him.
“I must sit down.” He sank onto the edge of the bed and let his head drop into his hands. “How did this happen?” His voice sounded desolate.
“I’m not sure, but I think it may be my fault. Wait one moment.” She rushed from the room and brought back the box.
“Donell, I bought this box yesterday, and last night I opened it.” She handed it to him. Their fingers touching sent a spiral of enticing memories through her.
“This is mine.” He opened the box and withdrew the plaid. “This is not my plaid, this is MacRae’s colors.” He looked puzzled for a moment.
Lainie nodded, not sure what to say.
“How did ye get this?” His gaze was accusing.
“I bought it from an old woman who was selling antiques.”
But he was no longer looking at her. His face was cloudy, his gaze narrowed, his lips thin.
“MacRae! That bastard. I will kill him,” he spoke through gritted teeth. The muscle in his jaw ticked vigorously. “He has done this to me out of revenge. He believes I kidnapped his daughter. He will pay for this.”
“Kidnapped his daughter?”
“Aye, the little brat. My men tell me she eloped with a Lowlander. Now her father aims to pin it on me. I must go back.”
Lainie’s eyes fairly bulged from their sockets. Her ancestor had blamed his daughter’s disappearance on Donell?
“Lainie, I have to go back. Send me back.” He looked panic-stricken.
Lainie gulped. What was she to do? “I don’t know how.”
“What? Ye must.” His panic was replaced by anger as he shot her a look that took back all the warm fuzzy feelings that permeated her being the night before.
She took a step back, pondering their situation. There must be something.
“Donell, maybe you were sent here for a reason. Maybe you must complete that first, and then you will go back.” She sat down next to him. “I did not call you here; you simply appeared. Perhaps it is fate.”
He stared at her a moment. “I canna fathom why.”
“Perhaps we should wait to see.”
Even as she sorted through the absurdity of a 17th-century laird in her bedroom, part of her ached for him. Maybe fate hadn’t made a mistake after all.
6
The morning light spilled across the cottage floor like a ribbon of unfurling gold, and the air smelled faintly of rain and peat smoke. Lainie lay awake, watching the dust motes swirl, feeling the steady rise and fall of Donell’s chest against her back. His arm was draped over her waist, heavy and warm, an anchor she both craved and feared.
For the first time in years, she wasn’t thinking about deadlines or editorial schedules. The world outside—the one with traffic lights and smartphones and endless lists—felt far away, irrelevant. All that mattered was the sound of his heartbeat, and the way it seemed to echo the wild rhythm of the Highlands themselves.
He murmured something in his sleep, a word she couldn’t quite catch. It sounded ancient and tender all at once. She turned slightly, studying his face. The strong lines softened by sleep, the dark lashes resting against weather-roughened skin. How could someone who belonged to another century look so heartbreakingly real beside her?
She reached for the brooch on the nightstand, tracing the etched knotwork with her thumb. Its faint pulse of warmth answered her touch, as if alive. Maybe it was her imagination. Maybe not.
Lainie had stopped pretending she understood how any of this worked.
She only knew she didn’t want it to end.
When Donell stirred, he brushed her hair from where it pooled on the pillow beside her ear, and his voice, still rough from sleep, curled around her like a whisper. “Ye’ve been awake a long time, lass.”
