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“Sorry.” He holds his hands up in surrender, standing ten feet away. “I did nae mean to startle you. Though I seem to do it often enough.”
“Why are you here?” I snap.
“The entire village is talking about the crazy witch who ran into the highlands. Had to come see for myself.” He grins.
“Oh, right. The crazy witch. Great. Another layer to the tale of how I’m anything but a lonely girl stuck in this living hell with a bunch of superstitious, backwater, unappreciative, judgmental jerks!”
Duncan stares for a long moment then a smile breaks across his face and he laughs. His laugh is rich and wonderful.
“Been holding that back a bit ’ave ya?”
My anger doesn’t want to give way, not yet, but it’s hard to stay mad when he’s smiling and laughing, especially because of the way his eyes sparkle as he moves closer.
“Yes,” I say, and he laughs harder. “Stop it. Don’t make fun of me.”
“I am nae,” he says, coming a step too close. “But you are right pretty when you’re angry.”
The scent of him is heady, musky, but with heavy hints of animal and hay. I turn away, nursing what’s left of my anger. It’s not him I’m angry at; it’s myself. My own inability to change the outcome of what I know is coming.
My impotence to make sure this man, whom I feel for, doesn’t die. How do I save him?
That’s not even considering I don’t belong here. Agnes is right; he should be with a woman who does belong here. Who can stay at his side, care for him, and give him children.
Kids? Jumping the gun much there, Quinn?
“You are,” I say, shaking my head. “Don’t bother denying it. I know how you men are.”
“Oh, do ya now? Have us menfolk all figured out, huh?”
He places one hand on the small of my back and it is electric. That simple touch instigates a summer storm that rages through my nervous system. Every inch of my skin tingles, alert and alive, demanding attention. His attention. He pushes gently until we’re walking together. He leads the way over to the rock outcropping where he takes a seat.
“I do,” I answer at last. “Deceitful. Always with an agenda.”
“Deceitful, am I?”
“Aye,” I say, and can’t stop a smile from spreading across my face as I use the familiar Scottish acknowledgment.
“Well,” he says, “I would tend to disagree, but how would I prove my lack of deceit?”
“I don’t know. I mean, if you are lying, wouldn’t you lie about lying?”
“Hmm, a complex problem.”
We stare into each other’s eyes. The setting sun casts rosy gold rays that have fought their way through the heavy gray clouds above to impale us on their fading glory.
“Indeed,” I say, leaning closer without meaning to. He has a gravity that pulls me in and won’t let me go.
“Perhaps if I were to swear to ya, on my mother’s grave, I have never and will never lie to you.”
He speaks with such sincerity it rings in my ears and echoes in my soul. Our mouths are so close, the warmth of his breath caresses my lips and cheeks.
“Perhaps,” I whisper, afraid the sound of my voice will break the moment.
“Then I do.”
“Do?”
“I do so swear. I have never nor will I ever lie to you.”
