Maggie came back to consciousness slowly, swimming up through layers of fog and confusion and—bagpipe music? A haunting melody pushed through the rest of the fuzz surroundingher brain and she reached for the thread of music, letting it draw her up to full awareness. She opened her eyes and found she was lying on the cold, rocky ground, staring up at a sky lightening with the dawn.
Where am I?
Fear swept over her, but Maggie forced the emotion down as her mind searched for something concrete to latch on to. The soft music of the pipes stirred her memory. Scotland. She was in the Highlands and something bizarre had happened to her . . . but what?
As the bagpipe music continued, she opened her eyes and drew in a quick breath. She was not alone. The man sat on the other side of a small campfire, his back against a large stone, one leg cocked, the other straight in front of him. His arms cradled what looked like a half-deflated jellyfish with little tubes poking out of it—no, pipes. One smaller pipe was held between his lips.
Bagpipes. She’d always loved bagpipe music and that alone would have made her feel warmly toward the stranger, but one look at his face chased that thought away.
His eyes were closed as if against a raging storm. Pain was etched across his features as if with a demon’s hand. Maggie closed her own eyes against the sight as she tried to get her bearings.
She’d been standing on a hill and had run down to the road below. There’d been a man on horseback, charging towardher. Another had saved her from being run down.
The sound of the pipes faded away and she opened her eyes, her gaze locking with two angry green eyes. The long tube slipped from between the man’s lips as he stared at her. A shiver danced down Maggie’s back as she stared back, unable to look away.
Ragged dark brown hair that came to just above his shoulders waved around his ruggedly handsome face, tossed by the Highland wind. His nose was straight and a little large, slightly dominating his face, and beneath it was the most amazing mouth Maggie had ever seen, full, yet firm, a mouth she could imagine pressed against hers.
A wave of dizziness swept over her. What in the world was wrong with her, having such thoughts? The man was a stranger. Possibly a serial killer. But somehow Maggie couldn’t look away from him, from that chiseled face rich with dark beard stubble, from the lines curving around the corners of his lips and radiating out from the corners of his eyes, evidence that once he had liked to laugh.
He wasn’t laughing now. No, right now his square jaw was locked tightly together and his chin, strong with a slight cleft in the middle, was lifted arrogantly as he glared at her from beneath dark brows that clashed above those piercing, haunted eyes.
Holding her gaze, the man reached for a sword lying on the ground beside him, hesitated, and then moved his hand to close around the flask next to it.
Sword? Maggie drew in another sharp breath. He had a sword.
He took a long drink, then dragged his black sleeve across his mouth. He was dressed all in black, slim black trousers, knee-high black boots, a black shirt, and a long black cloak. Maggie frowned. A cloak? Who did this guy think he was, the vampire Lestat?
A sudden image of the man riding across the Highlands on the back of a black horse, his dark cloak flying behind him, flooded her mind. He was the one who had saved her from the path of a charging stallion.
“So, ye’re awake,” the man said, his heavy brogue slurred and somewhat menacing. Panic sliced into Maggie. He was drunk, and apparently very angry.
Her hands clenched and closed around something rough and warm. She looked down and found she was wrapped in a blanket, a faint gray and green plaid pattern woven into the material.
"Y-yes,” she stuttered, grabbing the blanket and pulling it up to her neck as if the covering could protect her. She lifted one hand to her head and found her braid had come undone and her hair hung in long waves down her back. “I—I—how long have I been asleep?”
He took another drink from his flask, his eyes never leaving her. “The night,” he said. He gestured with the containertoward the sun, just beginning to peek over the distantpurple hills.
Maggie nodded, running her tongue across her dry lips. His steady gaze followed her movement and she put her tongue back where it belonged. “Oh, yes, well, I—I’m so sorry. I must have ruined your evening. Were you on your way to a costume party?”
He didn’t answer, but the anger in his gaze quickened. She swallowed hard and then rushed on.
“Listen, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help, I mean, you probably saved my life! You pulled me out from in front of that man’s horse. I guess he didn’t see me.”
He still didn’t answer, just took another drink. Maggie laughed uneasily. “Saying ‘thank you’ isn’t enough, I realize,but I do thank you, very much. When I get back to my friends, I’ll be happy to pay you for your trouble.”
The man froze, the flask still held to his lips. As he slowly lowered it, the emotion in his eyes changed from fury to disbelief and back to fury again. Finally looking away from her, he stumbled to his feet and dragged one hand through his dark, tousled hair. He began to stride back and forth beside the fire, his fingers still curling around the neck of the flask, the black cloak whipping around him in the wind as he paced, the heels of his boots biting into the frozen earth.
“ ‘Trouble,’ she says,” he muttered. “ ‘Thank ye and I’ll pay ye,’ she says.” His voice got louder. “ ‘I must have ruined yer evening,’ she says!”
He flung the flask against the large stone behind him, and Maggie jumped as the container shattered and the sound broke the still softness of the morning. Before she could recover from that shock, the man had crossed to her side and fallen to his knees beside her, his large hands digginginto her shoulders as he wrenched her up to face him.
“Do ye have no remorse, woman?” he demanded, givingher a shake, his voice deep and hoarse. “Do ye have no shame? A man is dead because of ye, and ye blather on about parties and payment for my help!”
Maggie’s heart pounded as she was forced to look into his face. His furious, burning eyes were too close to hers, and all at once, the rest of the night’s memories rushed into her mind. The other man, the one who had almost run her down, had been thrown from his horse when it reared backward. Her man—no, no, bad thought—the man beside her now had swung his own horse around and headed back to help his friend.
But his friend was being held by a bunch of guys in uniformand had shouted for them to ride on. There’d been a gunshot, and the other man had fallen to the ground. She’d begged her rescuer to turn tail and run, to save her life. And he had.
“The man that was shot—he was your friend,” she whispered,feeling stunned.
“Aye, he was my friend,” the man spat out. “Now dead because of ye.” He shoved her backward and Maggie sprawled against the ground, her head whirling with the implication of his words. He stood and staggered back to the fire, one hand to his head.
Horror rushed over her. “Why did they shoot him?” she cried as she scrambled to her feet, holding the blanket around her. “Who shot him? Where are the police?”
She’d heard that men in the more isolated parts of the Highlands had sometimes been known to take the law into their own hands, but surely even here there would be a policeinvestigation of a murder! Murder. She slid the man an uneasy glance. She was alone in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere with a drunk stranger. Not good.
The man stopped in his tracks and turned. In his black outfit and cloak, with the sword at his side, all he needed was a flat-topped black hat and mask and he could have passed for Zorro. A mask. When he had grabbed her and dragged her across his saddle, he’d had on a mask, and so had the other man they’d left behind.
Maggie clutched the blanket more tightly around her shoulders, new fears lacing through her. What was a guy dressed like someone out of a horror flick or some kind of cheesy adventure film doing in this part of Scotland? And why had he and his
friend been riding like every demon in hell was at their heels when she stepped into the road? And why had someone shot his friend?
“Who are you?” she said, brushing one long strand of hair back from her face as the wind whipped against her. “What are you doing out here dressed like some kind of bandit?”
In two long strides he was next to her again and she gasped as he grabbed her, this time pulling her full against him. “Who the hell are ye?” he demanded, the smell of whiskey on his breath, his chest hard beneath her hands. “Ye appear out of nowhere and in one moment, ye destroy Ian’s life and mine as well!”
Maggie closed her eyes, fighting sudden hot tears burningagainst her eyelids. What if it was true? What if she’d been responsible for someone’s death? She opened her eyes and let the tears spill down her cheeks.
“I—I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m Maggie Graham. I’m from the U.S., Texas actually.” He stared at her blankly. She rushed on, “You know the colonies. I’m very, very sorry if I caused your friend to fall off his horse, but you know, I wasn’t the one who shot him!”
She was close enough now, and the sky light enough, to see that his eyes weren’t black, as she’d thought, but a dark forest green. She stared into them, trying to keep her panic under control by focusing on the thin band of blue green that edged his irises and the flecks of that same color near the center.
“Nay,” he said, “ye dinna pull the trigger, but when ye rushed into the pathway of Ian’s horse and he went down, ye gave him over into the hands of the duke’s men!” He pushed her away from him, and she stumbled back a step, stunned.
Maggie opened and closed her mouth a couple of times before she could respond to that statement. The Duke? Wasn’t John Wayne dead?
“Look,” she said, fighting her need to cry while trying to sound confident, which made her voice a rather stern croak, “do you have a cell phone? Let’s call the police. I’ll tell my part of it. You obviously know who shot your friend, so the sooner you call the authorities, the sooner you’ll find out what happened to him.”
He shook his head. “Yer words have no meaning to me.”
Her temper flared and she glared back at him. “Look, you stubborn”—she tried to think of a good insult, but her nerve faltered as he continued to face her down—“man,” she amended. “You know, blaming me isn’t going to absolveyou of your part in this. You were the one who made his horse rear back like that, when you—uh—rescued me.”
Which technically still made it her fault. Maggie lifted her chin, quivering inside. The man’s face went ashen, and Maggie remembered why she never stood up to people. It always seemed to backfire and make her feel worse than ever. And guilty. Then the color returned to his face and he nodded.
“Aye,” he said softly as he took a step toward her, his eyes like emerald glass. “T’was my fault. I should have let ye been run down, and then none of this would have happened.”
Maggie felt heat rise to her cheeks, even as fear gripped her by the throat. “I didn’t do anything—at least not on purpose! I was confused and lost and I ran into the road looking for help. How was I to know that you and your friend were—having a race?”
He laughed shortly and shook his head, turning abruptly to walk back toward the fire. “A race!” He dragged one hand through his hair and looked back at her, his features now somber, though framed in disbelief. “Aye, a race for our lives.”
He sat down on the huge stone and folded his arms across his chest. Maggie hesitated but, determined to get to the bottom of his accusations, took a step toward him, still clutching the blanket around her shoulders. “You had on masks last night, didn’t you? You and your friend.”
He shot her a sharp look and then shrugged. “Aye.”
“Why? Were you on your way to a costume party?” she repeated. “Or some kind of equestrian-Zorro-vampire-look-alikething?” She smiled faintly at the absurdity of her words and received a frown in return.
“Ye talk and ye talk, but yer words make no sense,” he said, shaking his head. He picked up the bagpipe lying on the stone beside him and began to carefully place it into a leather bag.
“It was you playing the pipes,” Maggie said. “I thought I was dreaming.”
“Aye,” he said, his voice almost gentle, “’twas all just a dream. I hope yer dreams are filled with remorse and shame.”
“Well, that’s not a nice thing to say,” Maggie said.
“I am not nice.”
He continued to almost reverently put the instrument away. When he seemed sure it was covered properly, he reached into another leather satchel and took out an earthenwarebottle.
“What is that?” she asked.
“Whiskey. Do ye want a drink?”
Maggie took a deep breath. She’d wanted adventure and excitement in her life—well, here it was in spades. At that moment the morning mist rose up and she shivered. A shot of whiskey sounded pretty good and she opened her mouth to say yes, when her practical side thrust itself front and center.
She didn’t know this guy, didn’t know what was in the bottle, and keeping her wits about her was the only smart thing to do. She reached for her backpack at her feet.
“No, that’s okay. I have a bottle of water.” She took out her Ozarka and took a long drink. “Ah, that’s good.”
He didn’t answer, and Maggie looked up to see him tip the earthenware bottle to his lips and take a drink that seemed to go on for minutes.
“Uh, don’t you think you’ve had enough, maybe?” she asked.
He shook his head and took another drink, his voice growing more slurred, his eyes unfocused. “T’will never be enough. Never enough whiskey to wash away my guilt.” He stood and lifted the bottle in her direction. “Here’s to ye, lass. To the only woman who could break up a beautiful friendship.”
“I’m sorry,” Maggie whispered.
“Aye,” he said, his voice almost gentle, “so am I.” He hefted the bag onto his shoulder and then turned and walked away from her, his gait unsteady.
After watching him for a moment, Maggie realized he didn’t intend to come back.
“Hey!” she yelled. “Wait a minute!” She hurried to catch up with him as he continued to stride away from her. “Where are you going? What about the police?”
He stopped abruptly and she ran smack into his back. Her head began to throb again and she wavered as the man turned around, a scowl on his face.
“I dinna ken what this ‘police’ is that ye keep babblin’ about,” he said. “Ian is dead and I must plot my revenge.”
“Of course you must,” Maggie said faintly. A new wave of dizziness hit her, and she instinctively held out her hand for support. Alarm darted across his face and his arms went around her waist, just as her knees gave way. She leaned against him, breathing deeply, the rough wool of his cloak scratching her face, the smell of whiskey and rain and something definitely male permeating her senses.
“Are ye all right, lass?” he asked, almost kindly, his voice liquid, his lips so close to her cheek that all she would have to do was turn her head and his mouth would be against hers.
She didn’t dare, but oh, how she wanted to. Wanted to lift her face to his and feel the warmth and the passion of his mouth as their lips met and their tongues touched and—
Maggie blinked and shook her head. Okay, I must have a concussion. Maybe she had hit her head during that mad ride across the heather. With effort, she lifted her face from his chest and looked up at him, then drew in a sharp breath at the unexpected concern in his eyes.
His gaze locked with hers, and drifted to her mouth. He lifted one hand from her waist to cup the side of her face, his thumb smoothing her cheek and stopping just short of touching her lower lip.
You don’t even know his name. Oh, and let’s not forget—someone just killed his friend! He may be next. Get out of the line of fire.
Sense returned to Maggie like a wave of salt water, washing over her, sending strength back into her legs. She
straightened away from him and ran her tongue across her lips. Something glinted in his gaze, and this time it wasn’t concern.
“Thank you,” she said hoarsely. No, that didn’t sound right. She cleared her throat. “For catching me. I was dizzy, but I’m okay now. Except I’m still lost.” She took another breath and added, inanely, “I got separated from my group somehow.”
He frowned and took a step back, as if he had come to his senses as well. “Yer group? I dinna ken what ye’re talkingabout, lass, and I have no time to care for ye.” He shook his head. “I must go to Rob Roy and tell him of Ian. He will be sore unhappy to hear such dismal news.”
He turned away, but Maggie reached out and stopped him, laying one hand on his arm. “Rob Roy? MacGregor? The outlaw?”
His brow darkened again, and she quickly backed away a step. “He is no outlaw. The accusations against him are false!”
“Okay, okay, just calm down.” Maggie thought quickly. This was worse than she’d thought. The guy had either gottenso drunk that some major brain cells had been fried, or he was nuts.
But maybe it was just a too-many-tequilas-too-many-nights-without-sleep kind of nuts. She’d known some Scottishhistory majors in college who had partied so hard after finals that they started talking Gaelic, even though they were all from Amarillo. And wasn’t there some kind of RenaissanceFaire this weekend? Sure, Alex had invited her to it! Maybe this guy was just a little too into the persona he’d chosen.
Maybe.
Okay, so she was a little scared, but if the man was goingto hurt her, he’d had all night to accost her, and he hadn’t. She needed help getting back to Alex and the others,and like it or not, this guy was it. He was probably harmless.
Yeah, right. So why did her blood pressure go up ten points any time she got within two feet of him? That has nothing to do with fear, her wiser self noted.
“Okay, I’m in total agreement with you,” she said, tryingto sound soothing. “Rob Roy is the best, without a doubt. My personal hero, hands down.”
Highland Rogue Page 6
