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  "And if I refuse? My clothes are perfectly fine." Fine for the 21st century.

  "Doona test me, lass. Your state of undress is an invitation, and be careful someone doesna take you up on it."

  Connor trailed his fingers from where he was holding her hair back at her ear down her neck, sliding underneath her cloak, to her shoulder, slipping her spaghetti strap down as his 53

  fingers continued down her arm to settle at her waist. His light touch was a hot brand on her skin; she felt the heat through her clothes. His voice was husky as he breathed in her ear, "You are a beautiful woman, Mistress Stewart, and not many men have my honor or self-control in the face of what you so blatantly offer."

  "Self-contro...huh!" Mackenzie huffed, and shrugged her strap back into place. She glared straight ahead and prepared to give him the silent treatment.

  When Connor had gone down to the loch to offer the Stewart lass some water, he'd been stunned by how her blonde hair was swirled about her face by no breeze he could sense. The dawning sun streaked the skies and her hair with golds, and yellows, and reds. The red in her hair was undetectable normally, but when the sun peeked out from behind a few clouds, her hair had been ablaze with the fiery colors. He'd been stunned by the ethereal beauty of this girl.

  As her filmy white shirt, something akin to a shortened sark, had lifted in the unfelt breeze, it showed a tantalizing glimpse of skin. Something glinted in her navel, but before he could see what, her shirt fell around her once more.

  He was irritated with himself for being so distracted with her, but he knew she must be thirsty. Connor stepped up next to her and handed her the water. When she drank, his eyes never left her lips. He was imagining what those lips would feel like on his, and what they could do. Dangerous thoughts. He almost groaned aloud as her tongue flicked out to catch any drops left on her incredibly sensual lips.

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  He grasped her wrist and told her that it was time to leave.

  He should have known she'd be defiant. She did nothing that a proper lady should. And he did not like having his commands questioned. So when she questioned him as to their destination, he spun her back towards the loch, and pointed at his home. She didn't turn when she asked him if that was where he lived, and he wondered what he would see in her eyes. She turned toward him then, and he realized that he hadn't answered her. She stared up at him, a little nervously, he thought, when she said his land was beautiful.

  But on the last word, beautiful, she sounded wistful. What did that mean? So when Connor finally answered her, he was more abrupt that he'd meant to be, but she was not what he had expected. He'd thought she would be a spoiled, simpering, silly girl. Instead she was intriguing, headstrong, and brave. But when he'd heard her correct his use of her name to Mackenzie, his temper had flared. If she were related to the thieving, murdering clan Mackenzie, well he would make sure she would be sorry for that lie.

  Her little tantrum had eaten away at his unusually firm resolve. He had never encountered anyone who was so maddening in his entire life. His "little feud" as she'd so dismissively called it, had eaten away at his men's spirits, and crops and livestock for two years now. Even now, as he and the Mackenzie were at a tentative peace, he'd known that something was being planned to out maneuver him. But he'd gotten Campbell's betrothed. It had been so simple. His informant had been accurate with the information of when and where they would find the girl. He had been unsure as to 55

  why there hadn't been an escort with her; thought that it might have been a trap, however, all went smoothly.

  Connor knew there would be repercussions, but the question was how soon?

  She definitely evoked emotions he didn't want to admit he felt, and didn't understand why; frustration, an urge to protect, an urge to crush her to him, the urge to wring her neck when she questioned his authority....

  Her emerald green eyes were so easy to read; she would be an awful liar. Connor frowned as he thought Either that or she was a very good actress.

  He'd given in to the temptation he'd been fighting since he'd first dragged her against his body the night before.

  He kissed her.

  It had been meant as a warning, but when Mackenzie wound her arms around his neck and responded so passionately, it surprised him. Her sweet scent floated around him, making him want to take her right there. But Connor forced himself to remember that she was strictly a bargaining chip with his enemy, and could only ever be that. So he forced his expression cool and aloof as he broke the kiss. Her pupils were dilated, her green eyes darkened with passion, and her face was flushed from the rush of blood to her cheeks. He wanted to run his thumb across her swollen lips; he felt disgust at himself that he had been so rough that he'd bruised her lips. She looked so soft and fragile, with her fair skin; she brought out protective instincts in him. Looks were deceiving, though, as remembered her initial reaction to being abducted. Instead of touching her lips as he wanted to 56

  do, once more, he picked up her wrist and pulled her towards his charger. When Mackenzie had gracefully mounted the horse without waiting for his help, he couldn't hide his amusement, and his lips twitched upward. But he'd noticed when Mackenzie stiffened as he vaulted up behind her.

  She wasn't as immune as she'd like to pretend.

  Connor couldn't resist; her scent pulled him in and he wanted so badly to bury his face in her neck and hair.

  Instead, he swept her hair back away from her ear, and put his lips close to remind her that upon arrival at his keep, she would dress according to custom. His lips brushed the skin of her ear as he spoke, and while he delighted in the response from her, his own response shocked him. Connor forced his attention to what she had said.

  "And if I refuse?" Mackenzie raised a delicate eyebrow.

  This aggravating lass dared where most men feared to tread.

  At her petulant refusal, Connor reminded her of what happened to women who wandered around nearly naked.

  Connor ran his fingers down her neck, and slipped her strap down off her shoulder, but he couldn't resist her silky skin, and his hands trailed down her arm. The pink flush that followed where his fingers brushed pleased him more than it should; she was not indifferent to his touch. So he continued down her arm until his hand rested on her waist.

  Most men would take what she put on display without hesitating, but Connor was not most men. He was controlled.

  He was a chief, the leader of his clan. He could not afford to take what she offered; no distractions. However, he could not control the reaction his body had every time Mackenzie 57

  shifted in the saddle. With her bold tongue and expressive eyes, she was unlike any woman he had known before. It would be a long ride home. Connor warned her that someone would take her up on her offer; he'd offended her if he was reading her reactions correctly. What he was really thinking was that he would be the man to accept that invitation. The thought of another man touching her made him curiously angry; he felt strangely protective of her. She was momentarily saved from the Campbell, and Connor would protect her, but now the question was would she need protection from him?

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  58

  Chapter Five

  Mackenzie's eyes were the size of saucers as she took in the castle. It looked so similar to the castle she and Jenna were staying in. Could it be the same castle? It looked the same, just smaller, somehow. The more she studied the castle, the more she realized that it was too similar to be coincidence. Of course, she thought wryly, nothing was coincidence anymore. It didn't have the renovations that took place after the first World War, but she was certain that this was the same castle where she'd spent her first night in Scotland, except that would be 200 years from now.

  "Connor, what did you say the name of your castle is?" she said faintly, shock winning as the dominant emotion.

  "'Tis the Castle Eilean Donan." There was pride in his voice, and it was understandable; he was the lord of a ca
stle.

  "This is the Isle Donan. On a clear day ye can see to the Isle of Skye, the stronghold of the clan MacLeod."

  "That's what I thought." Mackenzie whispered. The reality of the fantasy was closing down on her. The feeling only intensified as they rode into the courtyard. Everyone who was there stopped and stared. Some cheered as they saw their lord, but most were silent when they saw her, staring with open curiosity. She unknowingly cringed back into Connor's chest at the blatant hate coming from some. Connor murmured something soft and low in her ear, something soothing, she imagined, but she couldn't understand it. All of 59

  her original feelings from the day before came back with a vengeance. Mackenzie felt very trapped and very alone.

  A young boy of maybe thirteen or fourteen came up to them as Connor reined his horse in. He dismounted and reached for Mackenzie. This time she let him help her down, and she didn't complain when he took her hand. Mackenzie was sure that her face showed her apprehension, and hoped that the fear was hidden, but mostly she just prayed that she wouldn't throw up. One woman was glaring daggers at Mackenzie and when Mackenzie met her glare with very wide eyes, the woman turned on her heel and stalked off. The only reason Mackenzie could think of for the blatant hostility was because of her engagement to the Campbell. Maybe it was something else, but she just didn't have the time or energy to expend on thinking of more than keeping her feet moving.

  With her free hand she clutched the cloak to her throat, and let Connor drag her by the other hand. Her breathing had accelerated so much that in order to keep from hyperventilating, she was matching each breath she took with Connor's. Nonetheless, she was dizzy.

  Above the barred and studded door, something was inscribed in Gaelic. Mackenzie idly wondered what it meant.

  When they reached the door to the castle, someone opened it for Connor and said, "My Laird" as they passed. Laird?

  Mackenzie vaguely thought that must be his title, and she filed it away for later. For now, though, she just looked around with wide, slightly unfocused eyes. She noticed that they were in a large room with tables and chairs...the Banqueting Hall? Connor just towed her toward a stairway.

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  He must have noticed her quiet apprehension, because he stopped at the bottom of the stairs, and asked her if she was feeling well.

  "Fine," Mackenzie just stared up the stairs, feeling a dizzying sense of deja vu from her castle tour the other day.

  She'd really thought she was over the feelings of hysteria from crossing time, but seeing the castle that she'd slept in a day ago as it looked now, well....

  "You look ill. I'll have a bath sent up once you are settled in your bedchamber."

  He sounded worried about her. She looked ill? She felt ill.

  That couldn't possibly be from the fact that she was now in the same castle she'd just visited, only it was just much newer, or that she had, gulp, time-traveled? The nausea came back. Mackenzie just nodded weakly and let Connor lead her up the stairs, and followed him to a hallway where there was yet another set of stairs leading up into the tower.

  Perfect, she thought, of course it would be the tower. Connor took her up three flights of stairs until the narrow spiral staircase opened up into a much larger and more open hallway. Connor took her to a wooden door in the middle of the hall, and its twin was about two feet away. He opened her door for her and released her hand.

  "These will be your chambers, Miss Stewart."

  "Thank you." It sounded stiff and strangled to her own ears—-who knew what Connor heard.

  "Are you all right?" This time she looked at him; he was peering at her as if she were insane. He was probably 61

  wondering if she were mentally competent. She didn't feel like going into it with him, so she lied.

  "Fine."

  Mackenzie could see that he didn't believe her, but he probably didn't care enough to press the issue. So she walked into what was now her room. She looked around and walked into the middle of the room, not seeing anything, just wanting Connor to leave so she could go to pieces alone, and wallow a bit in her misery. When she heard the door shut, she assumed Connor had left, and needing something familiar, she tore off the cloak and threw it across the bed. Her own clothes helped lift her spirits a bit. She stepped out of her Nikes, and turned to explore the room, only to almost turn right into Connor. She gasped and stepped back. He caught her elbow to steady her, smiling wryly at her surprise.

  She'd expected Connor to leave her, but there he stood holding the grey gown that she had been given in the carriage. He laid it on the bed, and told her that he would have a bath sent up, and to be dressed appropriately afterwards. She didn't miss the emphasis on how she should dress. He would be back in an hour and then they would go down to dinner. Connor paused at the door, and repeated,

  "One hour, Miss Stewart, doona make me wait."

  This time, Mackenzie waited for him to leave before sagging to the bed in relief at finally being alone. But it was not to be. A knock sounded and before Mackenzie could stand up, a young woman with red hair and her arms full of what looked like a corset walked in.

  "My Lady."

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  "Hello," Mackenzie was wary; so far no one had looked upon her with any form of kindness or sympathy.

  "I am Bronwyn, and the laird said ye'd be wantin' a bath?"

  At Mackenzie's hesitant nod, the girl called Bronwyn rushed out, and then back in followed by several servants, two of whom had a tub between them. The rest of them hauled buckets of water in until the tub was full. Mackenzie felt a little sympathy for them thinking that it must be quite a lousy job to haul buckets of water up three flights of stairs, quickly followed by a twinge of guilt, realizing that she was the reason they had carried the heavy buckets of water. But the tub was full and it smelled really inviting; like a spa she'd been to once, with essential oils and scented candles.

  Bronwyn tsked here and there as she first took in Mackenzie's outfit, and then helped undress her. Mackenzie wryly remembered that she was practically naked to the girl. Then Bronwyn helped her into the tub and immediately began scrubbing her and pouring water over her hair. When she was immersed in the water and smelled of lavender, Bronwyn started a fire in the large fireplace, then turned to Mackenzie,

  "I'll just fetch ye some wine."

  "Thank you," Mackenzie said quietly, wondering if she should really drink while she was here. Her already swimming head probably didn't need any outside help.

  "My Lady." At that, Bronwyn nodded and bustled out the door.

  Mackenzie hopped out of the bath, feeling slightly embarrassed that she had just been washed by someone 63

  else. So she dried quickly and dressed in her own clothes to await Bronwyn's return.

  She sat on the bed, finger-combing her wet hair and looked around. There was a large trunk by the far wall, and a door next to that. A large oval mirror stood in the corner; it reminded Mackenzie of an antique her grandmother had kept in the guest bedroom. This one was probably new, she half-smiled at the thought. There were two chairs set in front of the fireplace, and the huge bed she sat on with a bedside table to the right of it. In between the fireplace and the wall the bed was on was a tall arched window with a window seat.

  Mackenzie walked to the fireplace and shook her hair out towards the welcoming warmth. Her hair would be unruly curls without her trusty blow dryer and flat iron. Ugh. She'd always hated her curls; in the desert, it was so dry that they never curled right, and her hair was so heavy it weighed down the ringlets so they just looked funny. To her anyways.

  Jenna had always loved to play with her hair. But Jenna was a hair stylist, so she always made Mackenzie's hair look fabulous. Besides, Jenna had straight hair, she'd never understand.

  She glanced toward the dress and the corset-looking undergarments with dread. Hopefully Bronwyn would help her get dressed when she returned. There were a lot of ruffles, she'd seen wedding dresses with less ruffles. But ever brave, Mackenzie wandered
toward the bed and picked up the dress, then froze. Yes! Her purse had been salvaged along with the dress! Lip gloss here I come! Mackenzie grabbed her purse and dug through it til she found her compact. She opened it 64

  and reached for her lip gloss. She stuck her tongue out at her naked face, and sighed, wishing for mascara—-she loved mascara; she would miss mascara. Her sigh turned into an exclamation of joy as she saw her cell phone. Then she immediately felt like an idiot; of course there was no service.

  Besides, who would I call? she thought, her lips twisting into a grimace, Merlin?

  The knock at the door barely captured her attention as she tossed her purse on a chair, not sure she wanted anyone to discover it yet, and resumed trying to scrunch her curls by the fire. They'd be a tangled mess if left to dry on their own.

  She'd thought it would be Bronwyn, back with the wine, to help her into the pile of clothes on the bed. She was wrong.

  "Why are you not dressed?" Connor's demand had Mackenzie jumping and turning wide, startled eyes to him.

  The anger emanating off him was palpable, but rather than being afraid, his high-handed manner infuriated her. Fury was good, it distracted her mind from the uncomfortable emotions that were surfacing at his freshly-shaved-looking-hot-in-a-kilt-self. And he must have bathed as well, because he smelled amazing. He smelled clean; of soap and man, and something else. Something spicy and exotic. She tore her mind from his scent and focused on the black glare he was directing at her. She knew he didn't like to be disobeyed, but this wasn't something she could help. It wasn't her fault that she didn't know how to put all those clothes on. She bit her lip, thinking that while he may not like to be disobeyed, she didn't like to be bossed around, especially not by some 18th century highland laird.