Page 8 of Laird of Secrets

He beckoned again with long, nimble fingers. “Miss. Come up to me.”

She stepped back, her gaze never leaving his—somehow she could not look away. Then she turned, ran, and stumbled on the rocky terrain. The Highlander was instantly there, grabbing her arm, drawing her toward him in a strong grip.

“Come with me,” he said.

“No!” She pulled back. “You would steal me away!”

“What?” He looked down at her, the steep angle making him seem like a giant. “Who the devil do you think I am?”

“One of the—er, the Sidhe.” She realized how foolish it sounded.

He chuckled. A warm, delightful laugh. “Not bluidy likely.”

Fiona felt a hot blush rising. The man was perfectly real, and she was a perfect idiot. “What was I to think when you appeared out the mist, looking like a ghost, or a mythical being?”

“I would credit you with more sense. You seem a practical woman. Have you never seen a Highlander wearing the plaid?”

“Of course,” she snapped. “You could have given me some warning before startling me like that.”

“I beg your pardon.” He inclined his head, dark hair sliding over his brow. He seemed amused. “Truly, I didna mean to startle you.” He released her arm.

Setting a hand to her bonnet against a gust of wind, she stepped back. “I think I must go.”

“I think you must come with me.” He reached out. She evaded him, snatching up her knapsack and hammer. Before she could turn to run, he had her by the arm, drawing her to him, his hold threatening—and yet, somehow, she felt something protective in it.

“I am expected by my companions. They are looking for me even now!”

“Aye so?” He turned with her and walked across the slope rather than down. Alarmed, Fiona tried to break free, but his strong grip guided her quickly, half dragging her with him.

“Let me go!” Still clutching the hammer in her free hand, she struck his forearm, hearing a bruising thunk as the iron head hit thick wool over taut muscle.

“A mhic Ifrinn!”Son of hell, the man swore in Gaelic. “Give me that,” he barked, snatching the hammer. “I mean you no harm. I just want you gone from here. These hills are not safe.”

“I was quite safe until you accosted me,” she pointed out, stumbling along beside him, trying to keep pace with his long, purposeful stride. Where was he taking her? “You have no right to handle me so, or to order me out of here.”

“I do. This is my glen. I am MacGregor of Kinloch.”

“Your glen?”

“It is deeded to me as the laird. And tourists are not allowed to wander here.”

“I am not a tourist, Mr. MacGregor. I was invited to stay here in the glen.”

“The terrain is treacherous,” he was saying. “Only the locals know the safe paths through the hills. Rogues and smugglers are often about, night and day.”

“Are you one of them?” She looked up at him. He had dropped her hammer into a pocket, but her bag held some hefty rocks that could serve as weapons.

“Give me that bag,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. He took the knapsack from her shoulder and hoisted it to his own, its contents clunking. “What the name of the devil is in here?” He muttered part of it in Gaelic.

“Rocks.”

“From my glen?”

“I will put them back if it troubles you.”

“Keep them. We have plenty of rocks. If it is gold or treasure you search for, there is none of that here. We would all be wealthy in this glen if it was so.”

“I am not looking for gold. I am a fossilist.”