Her stomach growled, and she pressed a hand against it. "Are you trying to starve your new fiancée? I couldn't eat the gruel and haggis."
One corner of his mouth lifted, hinting at a smile. "So, you have indeed agreed to become my bride. I thank you. Come, we'll have supper." He turned and offered his elbow.
She took it, thrilled at the prospect of leaving this dingy, dark cell. "I hope it's something good. Not haggis again."
Glancing down at her, he lifted a brow. "Haggis is good."
"I can't handle it." Pointing at the tray, she grimaced. "I'd much prefer bread and water… good bread and clean water, that is."
Snickering, he led her from the cell, then guided her up the narrow stone steps. "No haggis this eve. Crocker has prepared a stew."
She would reserve judgment until she tasted it.
Now, she had no doubt Gavin was her fantasy lover. A real kiss from him had been even more astounding than those in her dreams. Moments ago, she'd been tempted to go after more than a kiss.
Don't be an idiot, Dani!
Could she even trust herself around him?
She had no intention of staying in seventeenth-century Scotland with the threat of a dungeon hanging over her head—er—under her feet if she wasn't an obedient wife.
She thought of her mom, dad, and sister with a pang of sadness. Did they even realize she was missing? They wouldn't check on her until next weekend… four centuries in the future. Her coworkers or boss might inquire about her when she didn't show up for her classes on Monday. Her friend Amelia might notice her absence first. They would think someone at the Highland games had kidnapped her. Her backpack would be found there, and her car. A mist of tears burned her eyes.
If she couldn't escape this century, she would lose her dream job. Even as a child, she'd wanted to be a professor like her dad. But she would miss her family most of all. Would she ever see Mom, Dad, or Gracie again?
After leaving the confines of the dungeon stairwell, she and Gavin emerged into the dark courtyard with high walls. A fine misty rain cooled the night air. "I can't believe you kept me in that creepy dungeon since last night."
He slid her hand around his elbow again. "A thousand apologies, but I was unsure whether I could trust you."
And maybe you still can't.Did she want his trust? A weird part of her did, though she didn't trust him. She would pretend long enough to escape this hell-pit and get back to where she belonged.
Her foot slid on a wet, mossy cobblestone, causing her to jerk at Gavin's elbow.
"Careful." He placed a protective hand over hers. "The rain made everything slippery. 'Tis a good thing you're holding onto me."
"Yes. Otherwise, this weak, wimpy woman would fall on her face, right?"
He snorted with amusement. "'Tis not what I said, but if you insist on seeing yourself that way…."
Suppressing a growl, she ground her teeth.
Both his hands on her upper arms, he guided her in front of him up the narrow wooden entry steps, no handrail in sight. Her feet skidded on the half-rotted, algae-coated wood. He steadied her, but in the next instant, she stubbed her toe on a strangely high step. "What the hell? This place is a death trap! Don't you people have any safety codes?"
He chuckled. "We learn how to navigate it, but it trips up our enemies."
"So, that high step is intentional?" she asked, aghast.
"Aye, of course."
They entered the broad, two-story great hall, which smelled of smoke and food. Her stomach gnawed at her ribs, demanding sustenance. Two torches—one on either side—provided plenty of light. A fire burned in the massive hearth, making the room warm and dry.
"Supper is served, m'laird," a short man announced, his voice echoing from the opposite end of the room. He stood by a table on an elevated platform in front of the fireplace.
Dani wondered if the man owned a comb or hairbrush. His wispy gray hair stood up at odd angles.
"I thank you, Crocker." Gavin led her forward, between two rows of empty tables and benches, then helped her onto the dais. "This is Lady Danielle MacRae."
"I'm so pleased to meet you, m'lady." Crocker bowed.
