Page 26 of Warrior of the Highlands (Highlands #3)

“How did you do it?” MacColla’s smile was wide as he swung his arm around her shoulder and pulled her tight. “How did you manage to clout the bearded one?”

She spied his chipped front tooth and felt an inexplicable rush of warmth in her belly. A thin triangular wedge, not immediately noticeable. She saw it and could think only that she’d kissed that mouth.

“My busk.” Haley gave him a coy smile.

“Your . . . what is it?”

“You know.” She patted her stomach. “From my corset.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him uphill. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

Her eyes scanned the rocks all around. “Aha.” Haley bent down and picked up the buckskin-wrapped length of steel from where she’d dropped it to fire the gun. She studied it, ensuring there were no signs of blood.

MacColla stared in awe as she carefully plucked at the laces between her breasts, opening the thin pocket that held the busk in place. Then, locking eyes with him, she slid the rib back in.

“You wee wildcat!” He laughed broadly and clapped her into a sudden hug. “You are something, aye? Only you would find some use for your girl clothes as a weapon.” Shaking his head, he chuckled to himself.

“Now that you’ve reunited with your wee cudgel, we should be away from here.” He scanned the horizon. Loch Awe glittered, fringed by low trees and snaking along the valley in the distance.

“I don’t imagine Campbell will make the hike up,” MacColla said, as he turned to face the low mountains behind them. Peak after peak reached far beyond, back toward Inveraray. “But we can’t be sure he’ll not return with men who will.”

“But where are we going?” She shuffled to catch up to him in his sudden stride along the ridge. “What about Jean?”

He scanned along the hill he’d so wildly charged up, searching now for the best way back down. “I left Jean in Scrymgeour’s care.”

“Oh.” She was suddenly very aware she’d been the cause of much turmoil. MacColla would’ve been reluctant to leave his sister. It couldn’t have been an easy decision. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” He stopped scanning and swung his face to her.

“Och, lass, you’ve naught to be sorry for.

” He was back by her side in two great strides.

Tangling fingers through her hair, he rested his hand at her neck.

“’Tis I who am the sorry one. I misjudged the Campbell.

And I confess, I misjudged you. It wasn’t until .

. . Well, I didn’t know. There was no way to know Campbell would be after you with as much piss and vinegar as he’d have for one of my own clan. And for that I’m sorry.”

“Oh . . .” She was silent for a moment, floored by the admission. Alasdair MacColla. She still couldn’t get over it. The Alasdair MacColla stood before her, apologizing .

“Well?” he asked with endearing vulnerability.

“Well, what?”

“Well, do you accept my apology then?”

“No sorry needed.” She reached up to place her hands on his shoulders. Standing on her tiptoes, her face still couldn’t reach his. “Just kiss me, MacColla.”

She felt his smile on her lips.

He pulled away. “Come, we must be off now. To Kintyre.”

He took her hand and led them diagonally down.

“Is that where you’re from?” Haley asked, struggling to keep up with him while keeping her feet under her at the same time. He avoided the rockier spots in favor of a path that was coarse with brush, affording them thick hand- and footholds.

“Kintyre? Och, no. Though it is traditionally Clan MacDonald land.”

MacColla was quiet for a moment, navigating a particularly steep spot. Once he was assured she had solid footing, he continued, “No, my father’s home was on the isle of Colonsay. There lies the true land of my family, my Clan Iain Mor.”

“But I thought you were a MacDonald.”

“Aye.” He looked back at her as if she were daft. “I’m a MacDonald, and what else? And though Clan MacDonald has holdings in both Ireland and Scotland, our true land is here, on Scottish soil.”

“But . . .” Haley looked perplexed, and he gave her a smile.

“But what, leannan ?” Laughing, he let go her hand to give her chin a pinch. “Don’t look so confounded, lass. In any event, ’tis not my family tree that needs discussing.” He raised his brows in challenge.

Taken aback, she lost her footing, and he spun to catch her. Only a short descent remained, and they made the rest of it in concentrated silence.

She’d need to tell him . . . something. What?

He hurtled straight down the rest of the slope, and turned to help her with her final steps.

She tried to walk on, but MacColla stopped her, his hands on Haley’s shoulders. “Who are you to be such a coveted prize for the Campbell?”

“I . . .” She was breathing heavily. Focusing on the climb down had left her light-headed.

Unable to think. She needed to rest for just a moment.

Haley hadn’t slept the night before, hadn’t had any real food in some time, and it was finally all catching up with her.

“Can we sit down? I need to take a break.”

MacColla shook his head, disappointed in himself.

“Och, of course.” He took her arm, helping her to the ground. “Of course you can rest.”

Her skin was clammy in his hands, cool and damp. Campbell had been the only thing on his mind, and he’d ended up pressing her too hard. The lass had been gone for some time and likely hadn’t eaten or slept—of course she needed rest. He wasn’t used to dealing with women and cursed his clumsiness.

“Have you a chill?” He stood to unwind his plaid for her, but she stopped him.

“No.” She tried a small laugh but it came out as a breathy exhale. “Please, there’s no need to strip.”

“Shall I find us some food? You need to feed yourself.”

“Really, MacColla. I’m not going to expire.” She gestured to the ground at her side. “I just need . . . a moment.”

“It’s Alasdair, lass. My Christian name.” He sat next to her. “You may call me Alasdair.”

“You’re MacColla in my mind.” She looked at him, a sidelong glance that suggested much yet said nothing. “I don’t know that I could call you anything else.”

His mind raced. “And how do you know of me?”

She clearly wasn’t a spy for Campbell. And though he was known for his victories with Graham, he’d thought women didn’t generally concern themselves with the finer points of battle.

“Tell me who you are, leannan . A Fitzpatrick, you say. Tell me of your family.” He tentatively reached to her, paused, then put his hand lightly at the small of her back. “I’m about to bring you to the very heart of mine. I must know.”

Instead of answering, she rested her chin in her hands. Looking into the distance, she asked matter-of-factly, “What year is it?”

“ Ciod an rud? ” Her peculiar question caught him off guard. “What did you say?”

“I just wondered . . .” She turned to face him, the mystery in those gray eyes honed to a razor-sharp point. “Really, MacColla, what year is it?”

“Sixteen forty-six, though surely you—”

“Is James Graham alive?” She waved her hand. “Never mind. Don’t answer that.”

“Who are you to have such concerns?”

“I’m not from here.”

“Aye”—he gave a small laugh—“I’d reasoned that for myself.”

“No.” She looked away from him again. “I mean, I’m really not from here.”

Haley seemed so small then, so alone. He leaned closer to her, wrapped his arm tight around her shoulder. MacColla thought it best to simply wait in patient silence for whatever tale she had for the telling.

She inhaled deeply. “Well. Here goes. I’m from the future, MacColla.” Haley looked at him, waiting for a response.

He just stared blankly, unsure what she was getting at.

She shut her eyes, as if bracing for something painful, then rattled quickly, “My name is Haley Anne Fitzpatrick, I’m from Boston, Massachusetts. I have . . .”

She scrubbed her face, swallowed, and tried again, her voice thickened by tears.

“I’ve got five brothers. Danny, Colin, Conor, Gerry, and Jimmy.

My dad . . .” She made a tiny, pained squeak, tightly controlled anguish keening from the cracks.

“My dad’s from Donegal. But he went to America the moment he finished school. He’s a cop. Was. Was a cop.”

She stopped for a moment, breathing hard, as if she’d just sprinted a mile.

Finally Haley continued, this time sounding numb, wooden, “My mom’s Irish too, but not fresh off the boat. Her folks were from Cork. I’m a PhD student at Harvard.”

Her tone swelled again, abruptly overwrought. “Get that? Harvard. That’s a big deal where I’m from. Celtic scholar. My focus is seventeenth-century weaponry. Isn’t that a hoot?”

She babbled feverishly now, unhinged. “I was born in the 1970s. How wacked is that? Platform shoes and disco dancing. But I was too young for all that. For me it was Kool-Aid. Star Wars. Madonna.”

She grabbed his arm, gave it a shake. “It’s the twenty-first century where I’m from. Planes in the sky. Telephones. Video games. Not to mention hot showers.” She paused, then mused wistfully, “God, hot showers seem like rocket science right about now.” She looked unseeing into the distance.

MacColla finally asked, “What is it you’re saying?” His voice was dangerously quiet. “I don’t ken your words, leannan .”

Leannan , she thought. He’d been calling her leannan . Darling. Sweetheart.

Lover.

Of Alasdair MacColla . So preposterous. And yet it gave her strength to see it through.

“What am I saying?” She pinned him with her gaze once more.

“I’m saying this is the past. To me, you’re from the past. You died.

Years ago. Hundreds of years ago. I know about you because you’re famous.

Congratulations,” she tossed off. “You die in Ireland. I don’t remember when exactly, or how.

You’re betrayed, that’s all I can remember.

” Haley raked her hands through her hair, resting her head in her hands, deflated.