Laird of Her Heart (Dundragon Time Travel Trilogy Book 1) (3 page)

And gawd. He was even hotter in person.

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.”

“Aye. And the Camerons all wear blue.”

“It’s hardly the same thing.”

“Is it no’?”

He opened the flap of the tent and she realized with surprise that he’d been leading her back to the camp. She hadn’t even been aware of it. That, if anything, was evidence of how dangerous a man he was.

“Sit down.” He nodded to a chair.

She didn’t care for the thread of command in his tone, so she didn’t comply.

His brow rumpled, as though one of his commands had never been so blatantly ignored. “Sit.”

“You could say please.”

He blinked. “Why would I say please?”

“Because it’s polite.”

“’Tis polite to offer a chair.” His enormous shoulder lifted. “But if you prefer to stand, so be it.” He settled himself into a chair and leaned back with a sigh. He folded his fingers over his middle and looked up at her, though he didn’t have far to look. With him sitting, they were nearly at eye level.

Maggie frowned at him. And at the other chair. And at him again. And then she sat. Not because he commanded it. But because she wanted to sit. That was all.

His smile annoyed her, but at least he tried to hide it. He turned away and poured liquid into two flagons and set one before her.

She glared at it. “What’s that?”

He took a deep draw on his. “Just water.”

“Just water?” She picked up her cup and sniffed, then took a sip. Cool, fresh water bathed her throat. It was beyond delicious. Maggie didn’t think she’d ever tasted anything like it. She emptied her cup and then held it out for more.

As he refilled her flagon, he studied her. “So, lass,” he said. “What is your name?”

It seemed churlish not to respond. He had given her water after all. “Maggie Spencer.”

He quirked a brow. “Maggie?”

“Margaret, really. But no one calls me that.”

“Ah. You were named for the Maid.”

“The Maid?”

“The Maid of Norway.”

Oh.
That
Maid. Margaret had been the Queen of Scotland. “Sure.” Whatever.

“And from where do you hail, Maggie Spencer?”

“Seattle.”

“Seattle? I’ve not heard of this place.”

“It’s…east of here.” Far east.

“East? But you were found to the south.”

There was no response to that, so she decided to turn the topic. “And your name?” She was pretty sure, but a confirmation would be nice.

“I am Dominic Dundragon. Laird of the Macintosh Clan of Dar.”

Even though she’d known, a shiver danced through her. She stared down into her cup. “Dominic is not a Scottish name.”

“Nae.” He chuckled. “It’s from the Latin,
Dominicus
, meaning
Of the Lord
. I was born on a Sunday.”

“I see.”

“And now…” He leaned closer. His breath bathed her face. “Maggie of Seattle, why were you sleeping in the
ciorcal cloiche
?”

“The what?”

“The stone circle.”

“I wasn’t sleeping there.”

He frowned. “All right. What were you doing there?”

Well hell. How to answer that? She could hardly tell him the truth. She didn’t even believe the truth herself. And if she had somehow stepped into the thirteenth century, it probably wasn’t wise to suggest she had magically traveled through time. It would be damn inconvenient if they burned her as a witch. “I was…lost.”

“Lost?”

The thread of disbelief in his tone annoyed her. “Yes. Lost. Haven’t you ever been lost before?”

“No. I canna say as I have.”

That annoyed her too. He was far too condescending. She blew out a huff. “Yes, well,
I
got lost. Would you mind telling me where I am?”

“You’re in Dar.”

“Scotland?”

Her question took him aback. He stared at her for a long while before he answered. “Aye. Scotland.”

His perusal made her uncomfortable. She shifted in her chair. Then she said the first thing that came into her mind, which, as always, was unfortunate. “I thought Dar was a castle.”

His brows lowered. “Aye. Dar is the name of my home. My village. My lands. Clearly you know this of us at least.” His sudden suspicion was palpable. “And how did you come by this knowledge, Maggie of Seattle? A woman who does not even know the name of the country she has wandered to the center of?”

She sniffed. “I read it in a book.”

She was not prepared for his response. He reared back and gaped at her. “You…read?”

“Of course I read.” Upon reflection, she should have remembered that few people were literate in this world. Most especially the women. “Everyone in Seattle can read.” She shot him a look. “We’re very progressive.”

“I…see. And what was the name of this book?”

“
The Macintoshes of Dar
.”

“A whole book dedicated to my clan?”

Oh dear. This wasn’t helping. He was becoming even more leery. She decided to go all in. “It’s my clan too.” It was. Though she was 700 years removed. Everyone in her family had descended from one man, Liam Macintosh, the lone survivor of the Urquhart Ambush.

Dominic stilled. “You are a Macintosh?”

“Yes.”

“The Macintoshes of Seattle?”

Um. Sure. “Yes.”

“Why have I never heard of this sept?”

“I told you. We’re from the west.”

“I know all the clans to the west.”

“We’re from across the sea.”

His eyes narrowed. “There is nothing across the sea.”

“There is.” Seattle, for one thing. Also, Vegas. But she didn’t see the point in mentioning that.

He was silent for a long while. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and somber. “All right. Assuming you are, indeed a Macintosh from Seattle…why are you here?”

Oh crap. How the hell was she supposed to answer that? She didn’t know. Not really. She decided to go with her gut. To give him the one answer that had been humming in her soul since she clapped eyes on his picture.

“I came to meet you, Dominic of Dar. I came to meet you.”

CHAPTER THREE

Something whipped through Dominic like a howling wind. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it was hot and needy. Certainly, she was a strange little thing. Certainly her story was suspect. But he couldn’t shake this sense of…recognition. The overwhelming sense of inevitability. As though the two of them were meant to meet. Meant to be together. Meant to—

And yes, his passion was high.

He wanted her with a hunger he had never known. He wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her, ravage her, claim her.

But his brain overruled his hunger. It had to. He had hundreds of kinsmen beneath his banner and he was devoted to protecting them. He could not succumb to simple lust with a woman who could be a traitor. Who could be lying every time she parted those pretty lips.

But it wasn’t simple lust, was it? There was nothing simple about it.

He sat back and studied her, but in truth, he needed a moment to rally his resolution, his sanity.

“You say you have come from Seattle to meet me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Her mouth opened. He fixated on it. He hardly even noticed the fact that she didn’t actually respond, that a flicker of befuddlement crossed her face. Would she not know why she had come to meet him?

At length, she burbled, “Well, to meet the great Laird of Dar, of course. Everyone knows of you in Seattle.”

Again, he had the sense her words were lies, but he didn’t dwell on the suspicion. There seemed little point. All that mattered here, all that should matter, was keeping his people safe from their enemies. There had been many raids on his lands of late, many treacheries from the Cameron Clan to the east. Whispers of betrayal abounded, especially now, with the forming of the Chattan Confederation. The Camerons had not been included in the federation of clans and—resentful of the exclusion, or worried the combined forces of so many families would become too powerful—were determined to scuttle the union. 

More than one Cameron spy had been captured, and many Cameron lads had come to Dar to cause mischief. They were becoming a familiar nuisance.

But they’d not yet sent a woman.

Though he was certain she was lying, he was also certain she wasn’t a spy.

What she was, was a mystery.

One he was determined to unravel.

Declan pushed into his tent and when he saw Dominic and their prisoner enjoying a drink at the table, he glowered. He glowered a lot.

“You were supposed to wait for me before you interrogated her,” he grumbled.

“I’m no’ interrogating her. I just thought she might like something to drink…after her stroll.”

“Her stroll?”

“Aye.” Dominic gestured to the ropes on his pallet. “Apparently Ewan’s knots were no’ strong enough to hold her.”

“You did tell him to be gentle.” This Declan said with a hint of repugnance.

“Oh, did you?” Maggie asked. Her expression brightened. She fluttered her lashes. “That was nice.”

“I dinna want him to hurt you. But I expected him to tie you securely at least.”

“Oh, the ropes were very secure,” she said with a solemn nod.

Again, a lie. Why it made him want to grin, he didn’t know.

“Well, now that I am here, we can begin,” Declan said. There were no more chairs, so he stood, looming over Maggie with his arms crossed. To her credit, she didn’t seem intimidated in the slightest. “Who are you, wench?” he barked.

For some reason, she grinned. “You’re the second person to call me that today.” But she seemed disinclined to answer, which annoyed Declan heartily.

Dominic sucked in a deep breath. “Her name is Maggie Spencer, of Seattle—”

“Seattle?” Declan’s brows beetled. “Never heard of it.”

“It’s to the west, across the sea.”

“It’s a lovely town.” Maggie leaned forward. “We have flying fish.”

Declan snorted an imprecation and she batted her lashes…again. It almost seemed as though she
enjoyed
riling him. Which, upon reflection, was not terribly wise. She was fearless. Or foolish. He wasn’t sure which.

“She claims she was coming to visit…Dar and became lost. This is why she was sleeping in the
ciorcal cloiche
.”

“Technically, I wasn’t sleeping.”