Page 21 of The Finest Scottish Fate

“Either I’ve lost my mind, or you’ve lost yours.” She gave him a slow up-and-down look, then turned and did the same to his horse. “Your clothes… Your gear.”

“Aye?”

“They’re not exactly what I thought a Highlander would wear.” She held up both hands as though to stop him from approaching her. “Not that you don’t look nice. It’s just not what I expected. Like…you know…sweaters and kilts and stuff are what I’ve seen everywhere else.”

“Yer manner of dress is quite different as well.” He tried to choose his words carefully as he closed the distance between them once again. “A kirtle, a gown, or perhaps a surcoat would have been what a Highland woman wears.” He nodded at her dark blue, oddly long-legged breeks and the matching jacket with the woolly interior. “Is that the normal manner of dress in yer Nashville?”

“I don’t know what a kirtle is.” She glanced around, but didn’t back away, tempting him to reach for her hand. “You’re sure you’ve never heard of Craig Durness?”

“I have not.”

“Edinburgh?”

He nodded and slid his hand under hers, gently taking hold of it. “Aye, I know Edinburgh well. I did not agree with the Bruce when he ordered the castle damaged to keep the English from attempting to occupy it once more. He and I had quite the lively discussion regarding that.”

“The Bruce,” she repeated slowly, her brow furrowing as her confusion deepened.

“Aye, Robert the Bruce, the King of Scotland. Surely ye’ve heard of him in yer Nashville?”

“Uhm…yes. We’ve heard of him in Tennessee. And you say you spoke to him? In person?”

She’d gone pale again and become more agitated. What the devil had he done to upset her now? “Aye, lass. I was at the Bruce’s nephew’s side when we scaled the castle’s defenses in March 1314. It’s been nigh on twelve years past by now.”

“What?” She wet her lips, then swiped a hand across her mouth, making him wonder if she was about to empty her stomach. “What year?”

“1314.”

She shook her head, jerking erratically as she pointed at the ground. “No. What year is this?”

“1326.”

“No.” She backed away, horror filling her face. “This is not 1326. It can’t be. That’s a very unfunny joke. You should be ashamed of yourself, picking on a poor, unsuspecting tourist when they don’t feel well.”

He’d never been so frustrated, confused, or entranced by a female in all his born days. What the devil was she talking about now? “I rarely jest about anything, and what is a tourist?”

“A visitor to a strange land,” she mumbled as she slowly lowered herself to the ground, hugged her knees, and started rocking like a person stricken with madness.

“Why can it not be the year 1326?”

She didn’t answer. Just kept rocking.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, warning of a coming storm. Drummond snorted a bitter huff. The timing could not be any better. He’d lay odds that storm was nothing compared to this current unpredictable tempest in front of him. Since talking had failed, it was time for action. He strode forward, picked her up, and threw her over his shoulder.

“Put me down, or so help me Hannah, I’m going to puke down your back.” She pummeled him with both fists and tried to twist away.

He tightened his hold on her legs and ignored her, but couldn’t help but wonder who Hannah was. Was that the name of her handmaid? Another confused lass from the sidhe hill, perhaps? He threw her over the saddle and launched himself up behind her before she could roll away or slide back off the horse. Holding tightly to the back of her breeks, he swatted her rump, then flipped the reins and set them in motion. “Ye can ride like a sack of grain or sit up in front of me as is proper. I leave it to ye, m’lady. Which shall it be? Because ye will ride one way or the other, and ye will be coming with me.”

“You’re going to be sorry!” she growled, then tried to bite his knee.

At the moment, he couldn’t agree more. He urged his horse to a faster gallop, enjoying the way her sweet arse bounced beneath his hands with every hit of the horse’s hooves. As they came up even with Murdoch, his friend shook his head and repeatedly crossed himself.

“Fine!” She slapped his leg and shrieked, “I said, fine!”

He reined in his mount, slowing the beast to a meandering walk. “Which means?”

“Let me sit up,” she growled through clenched teeth.

He caught hold of her by the waist and flipped her upright, tucking her quite nicely between his legs before nudging his horse back into a ground-eating trot.