Page 8 of Laird Of Her Heart

She tried to brush her hair from her face and realized her wrists were tied, which was very annoying. But she wasn’t sure which was more irksome—the fact that they’d tied her wrists together, or that they hadn’t bothered to do a very good job of it. Apparently they thought her far too feeble to work the bonds loose, too stupid to use her teeth to untie the simple knot.

Once free, she stood and brushed herself off, then she crept to the flap and peered out. A boy stood by the fire, tending the roasting deer, but other than him, the camp was empty. Or at least, none of the other warriors were visible.

Excellent.

Sucking in a deep breath, she tiptoed from the tent and darted into the woods.

Though they’d hauled her here—kicking and screaming—she was pretty sure she could find her way back to the stone circle. Obviously it was some kind of portal—some wormhole in time, to use Jenny’s description—that connected these two places in time-space. If she could get back to the circle, maybe she could get back home. To pizza. Not that she was starving…but she was. If nothing else, she wanted to rescue her locket before someone else found it.

She probably should have watched where she was going, rather than peering over her shoulder to make sure no one was following, because she slammed into a tree.

Wait. Not a tree. A wall.

No. Too warm to be a wall. It was…

Crap.

It was him.

His chest to be specific. He was so tall she had to tip back her head to see his face. He was not amused. Those perfectly-defined features were arranged into a frown.

“And where do ye think yer going?” His voice was low and melodious; it sent a skitter up her spine. Made something unnerving churn in her belly, heat rise on her neck.

She ignored all that and pulled herself from his grasp.

Apparently he didn’t want to release her so it devolved into something of a scuffle. With a lurch, she reared back and stepped away because, seriously, she couldn’t think with him that close. At least, not think logically. All she could focus on was the way he smelled—manly and musky—the heat rolling off him in waves, his piercing stare.

She swallowed her drool and crossed her arms and attempted to look him in the eye. “What, ah, what was the question?” Yeah. It was that bad.

“Where are ye going?”

“To hell if I don’t change my ways.”

The highlander reared back and stared at her as though he’d never heard a snarky response before. As though he’d not smelled so much as a whiff of insubordination. As though no one ever dared.

Well, she dared. She dared just fine.

She put her hands on her hips to make the point.

His brow lowered. “Where are ye going, lass?” This in a gentle tone that somehow brooked no defiance.

She waved her hand in some vague direction. “Back.”

He tipped his head to the side and smiled. It was a sad smile limned with pity. It was also breathtakingly gorgeous. Dimples erupted on his cheek above his neatly-trimmed beard. “I doona think so.”

“I most certainly am.” She ripped her gaze from his face and focused on a tree, or a bush. Whatever. Just not on his face. His scent assailed her, fuzzing up her thinking process. Still, she was able to sputter, “I don’t belong here.”

“You realize we canna let you go.” He said it so softly, in such a poignant tone, she glanced at him before she could stop herself. His eyes were gray, like a stormy day at sea, but they were calm and steady as he waited for his meaning to register.

“Of course you can let me go. You need to let me go. I have to get back—”

“Back where? To the Camerons?”

She gusted a melodramatic sigh. “I’m not a Cameron. I believe I mentioned that before.” Several times.

“Then why are you wearing Cameron blue?”

She smacked her leg. “These are jeans. Everyone wears them where I come from.”