“Chill, Ian. We didn’t have that.” Grey nodded to the cross that Ian had put on the small table beside Grey’s chair. “Aunt Grace managed to get another one, but she lost it when Yearger, the guy who tried to kill Mom, kidnapped her. And, like I said, we also don’t have Rhys, Mom, or Reik.”
Ian stared at the cross. It was all just so much . . . too much.
“There are two of those?”
Grey nodded. “When Mom went through time, taking the cross with her, Grace went back to the Fae for help. They gave her a second one as a favor, but they made it pretty clear it was the last one they’d give her.”
“So there are two,” he repeated.
“Right.”
“And Mom and Rhys? Where are they now? Where’s Reikart?”
“We’ve sent word to him at Castle Lochlavine in Liddesdale, to tell him I’m here. But I thought it would be smart for one of us to stay put at Hightower at all times. If we keep running around Scotland looking for each other . . .”
Which was exactly what Ian was doing right now. Running around and looking for Grey. It was a place where Ian had no business getting lost, but he’d never been able to fight his curiosity. The closer he got to the mystery person by the lake, the more the figure came into focus. It was a woman. And she was alone. From the way she was bending down, she appeared to be injured.
He’d only been in the past for a week, but Ian knew enough about the area to liken it to the Quarter. Relatively safe if you knew where you were and didn’t venture too far out of your comfort zone. But a few streets in the wrong direction, or in this case, on the wrong person’s land . . .
He’d had exactly one week of training with the sword at his side. And after some of the stories Grey had told him, Ian had no desire to meet up with, well, pretty much anyone who wasn’t a member of Clan MacKinnish.
This woman might be hurt, however, and she appeared to be alone. He wouldn’t ride away from her. She wore a hood, but as Ian came closer, she stood.
Perfection.
There was no other way to describe her. Smooth, slightly pale but in an ethereal way. But her eyebrows and hair were dark. Almost black. And then he did a double take. She looked straight at him, the mark on her left cheek startling him. A birthmark, maybe? It was as big as a plum, although not perfectly round.
Ian had never seen anything like it. Like her. Immediately entranced, he dismounted as she eyed him warily.
Her eyes were also dark, so very opposite from her pale, smooth skin. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.
He could read her eyes.
I dare you to mock me, they said.
Ian cursed himself for having stared at the mark for too long. Instead, he looked into her chocolate brown eyes.
“Good day,” he said, emulating his brother. “My name is Ian MacKinnish.”
Her mouth dropped open. But he doubted she was reacting to the good looks and charm that had always served him well with the ladies in his time. No matter how hard he tried, Ian couldn’t remember not to use modern terms or sentence structures. And there was nothing to help his American accent.
“Are you okay?”
5
Màiri forgot about her ankle.And the cold. And the fact that she was standing next to a stranger in a place where no one would hear her if she screamed.
She forgot everything but him.
Heart racing, she fought the urge to cover her cheek. Worse, she wanted to touch him, to step forward and cup his strong, smooth jaw in her hands.
What an odd sensation.
He’d asked her something, but she hadn’t understood. Or maybe she simply couldn’t concentrate. Her focus was too fixed on him—and on the unusual way she was reacting to him.
Chestnut brown hair touched his shoulders, his hair nearly the same length as Ambrose’s. But never, not once in all the years she’d known Ambrose, had Màiri felt desperate to kiss his lips, his jaw, his face. Their kiss had been pleasant, but she would have just as soon have continued their discussion.
But this stranger. Ian MacKinnish. She wanted all of those things with him.
