Page 28 of Warrior of the Highlands (Highlands #3)

Could he believe her? They’d stopped for a brief rest, and MacColla sat, watching Haley.

The lass was in her own world, studying his sword as if it could unlock the key to the universe. She’d leapt for it the moment he pulled it from his black leather scabbard to sit.

Would he believe her fantastical story, or decide simply that she was the loveliest madwoman he’d ever met? Her crazy talk of traveling through time had confounded him. And yet . . .

“Would you call this a Gallowglass sword?” she asked.

“ Leannan , you do have the most peculiar questions.” He untied a small leather bladder from his belt and took a deep pull of water.

He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, amused and disconcerted both. “So you speak the Irish too? Gallóglaigh. Foreign soliders,” he mused. “I’ve not heard that word in some time. Aye, it’s got the look of an Irish sword like those the Gallóglaigh fought with.”

He watched her return her attentions to the blade. She ran her palm along the base of it. It was a simple design, with V-shaped lines that echoed its sharp edges. Haley slowly stroked her hand along the flat of it, dipping her fingertip in and out of the etched steel.

Hunger clutched hard and fast at MacColla’s chest. He felt it smolder in his eyes and drive straight to his loins, making him rigid with want.

“How is it you make a man weak with a mere touch to his blade?” He tried to muster a smile, but could only stare, the pure craving of her pushing out all other thought.

“ Claidheamh da laihm ,” he rasped. “That’s what that sword is called.”

“Kla . . . hi . . . dah . . . life,” she pronounced slowly. “Two-hand sword.”

Feeling his eyes on her, Haley glanced up, and the intensity of his gaze overpowered her. His eyes pierced her. Incinerated her.

What did MacColla think of her? Did he believe her, or think her insane?

She looked away quickly. Strangely nervous, she returned her attention to the weapon, searching for some clue to the heart of the man.

She smoothed her fingers along the guard, an unadorned span of steel in the shape of a T , directly over the hilt, meant to protect the bearer’s hand.

Thin nicks in the metal scratched her thumb, and she contemplated those strikes from other swords that had not found his flesh. She realized she was grateful.

Her finger traced down the leather grip. It was a ring-hilt, with a plain circle at the base of the pommel. Either an Irish-made sword, or with a nod to one.

She fisted her hand tight around it. The leather was smooth, from sweat and blood and use.

Haley lifted. The tip remained on the ground, but still she felt the sword’s heft. It would be only seven, perhaps eight pounds. Not too much heavier than the five-pound weights she’d sometimes worked with at the gym.

She lifted the blade from the dirt. It was difficult. Eight pounds might not be much, but stretch it into a six-foot-long sword and it was a different story. She let the tip fall to the ground.

“Your early biographers wrote that you could behead four men with a single swing.”

“Ha!” He gave a resounding laugh, and the sound of it was a balm to her nerves. “Is that so?”

She shrugged innocently, a smile on her face now, and he scooted next to her to clap his arm about her shoulder and tuck her in close.

“Well, I suppose if the men were all of a height,” he speculated for a moment, sounding highly amused. “And if they all stood very still for me, back to stomach. Then, aye, I could do it.”

In that moment, a wave of affection for him swept her. His suddenly high spirits were irresistible. And his accent melted her. His words had come out as “verrra still,” the thick brogue tripping his tongue.

She wrapped her own arm around his back, leaned close, and found herself inhaling quickly for a renegade hit of his scent.

Musk and man. Closing her eyes, she shook her head at her animal response.

An explosion of warmth in her belly, her body suddenly expectant, all her muscles tensed, piqued, and on alert.

Did his laughter mean he believed her? Could he believe she was from another time? She hoped desperately he did.

“We can’t tarry long, leannan .”

She sighed. Her body ached from walking. From not sleeping. Not eating. She’d been taken in the night and her feet were still bare, scratched, and sore.

Reading her thoughts, he said, “I see your weariness, and I’m sorry for it. But there’s nothing to be done. We’re still on Campbell land. Though some of his people rally quietly against him, we’ve no way to tell friend from foe.”

He tangled his hand in her hair, pulled her close to kiss the top of her head. “We need to keep walking. Find horses and be away from here.”

“How will we find horses?” She gestured to the grand wilderness around them. They’d traveled steadily south, as much as possible taking cover in the wooded tangles that shadowed Loch Awe. She didn’t imagine they’d be running into a stable anytime soon. “We’re out in the middle of nowhere.”

“Don’t fash your bonny head over it.” He pulled her in for one last, rough hug to his side. “I’ve spent the better part of the season raiding this very land. I expect I’ll be able to root out a pony for that sweet bottom of yours.” He slid his fingers down to give her a pinch.

She made a little chirp of surprise. MacColla’s grin was guileless and, Haley thought, if she didn’t know better, she’d think he was quite pleased with himself.

He looked at her, his features softening, brown eyes warm as they roved over her face, taking her in.

“One more thing, leannan .”

The naked affection she saw in those eyes startled her. Thrilled her. Scared her. “Yes?” Her voice came out breathy and slight.

“I believe you.” He stroked her cheek. “I don’t understand your story, but I believe it.”

Tears sprang to her eyes. “Really?” Something deep in her core unspooled. She hadn’t fully realized just how terrified she’d been. Terrified that he wouldn’t believe her. Terrified she’d be left on her own.

But most of all, Haley had been terrified she’d misunderstood why she was sent back. Because she knew the reason now. She’d been sent back in time to him. For him.

“It’s you,” she managed. “You’re why I’m here.”

“Aye.” Emotion tore his voice to gravel. “And I’m the reason you’ll stay.”

Stay. Could she? What of her family? Her life? To stay would be to forsake her old world forever.

She roved her eyes over MacColla’s face. His mouth, full, with lips slightly parted, ready to take her, taste her. His eyes, in which she’d witnessed such ferocity, now vulnerable, naked with affection, only for her.

Yes , she thought. Maybe.

Stay.

For a while.

He kissed her then, soft and slow, and it was the rightest thing she’d ever known.

“Can we swim?” Their destination was the Mull of Kintyre, and though all she knew of the place was sung by Paul Mc-Cartney and Wings, Haley was beside herself, excited to see what he claimed was a modest home in a glen by the sea.

“You’re a swimmer then too?” He shook his head. “Och, you’re sure to impress my father now.” He raised his brows in mock gravity. “You’d be wise, however, not to call the man Colkitto .”

Laughing, she asked again, “Well, can we?”

“Swim? Aye, you can splash about. But I dare say you’ll prefer a tub of hot water to the sea. ’Tis decidedly warmer.”

Oh God, a bath. Her body thrilled with it, every cell shrieking to attention. Suddenly her scalp, her back, her legs, all the parts that had been itching like mad flared into a raging prickly need for a thorough scrubbing.

“Oh.” She shuddered with anticipation. “A real bath? Will we be there tonight?”

“ Leannan ”—he laughed and tousled her hair as if bemused by her silliness—“tonight? No indeed. It will take us days to get there. I’d say it’s a full twenty leagues from where we stand. Or more. And there’s still the matter of finding us horses.”

He blew out an exhale, looking longingly at the distant lake, now only a glittering patchwork through the trees.

“A boat is what we really need.” MacColla turned to her.

He tried to mask a smile. She saw the devil in his eye and chose to ignore it.

“Kintyre is almost an island, aye? A long bit of land hanging from the mainland like a, well . . .”

“Like a . . . ?”

“Like a . . . long, thin . . . appendage dangling from the coast.”

She rolled her eyes. She’d been one sister among five brothers; she caught the joke. “Okay, MacColla. I get it. It looks like a . . .”

“Peninsula,” he quickly added. “It looks like . . . aye, it is a peninsula.”

“Mmm-hm.” Nodding her head, she bit back a grin.

“Ah,” he interjected, wisely changing the subject, “I do have a story about this strapping peninsula.”

She shot him a look.

“’Twill shorten our walk,” he assured her.

When she didn’t protest, he began, “Kintyre didn’t always belong to Scotland.” He nodded solemnly, settling into his story. “Over five hundred years ago there lived a great Viking warrior.”

He paused to take her elbow, helping her over a fallen log, then went on, “There’d been great fighting over who’d control the west of Scotland.”

MacColla’s brogue thickened, drawing out his words. “Our good King Malcolm told King Barelegs—that was the Viking’s name.” Raising his brows, he grinned. “And a hard name to forget, aye?”

His face lit, completely animated now, and Haley decided he’d picked up a bit of the Irish storytelling in his time away.

“Malcolm told the Viking that he could keep whichever islands he was able to sail around. Well, Barelegs asked his men to drag his boat over the narrowest stretch of Kintyre, so set was he on having the land.”

“And did he do it?”

“Oh, aye,” he laughed from deep in his belly, “and as the story goes, he sat proud as you please on the poop of that Viking longboat whilst his men hauled him across.”

As her laugh faded, she stopped in her tracks. Watched MacColla’s back as he walked on for a few paces.

Such a huge man. Six foot six, she estimated. Haley watched and admired the shift of muscles beneath his shirt, the flex of his iron calves with each step. His black hair was wild, swaying, brushing along his shoulders. And there was that tremendous sword reaching toward the ground at his back.

He was such a surprise to her.

Haley had heard of his ferocity, had seen it in his fight with the Campbells. She knew there were dark and vicious depths that she’d yet to understand.

The warrior in him scared her. Could she love a man capable of such brutality?

And yet she found she also anticipated seeing that side. God help her, she even hoped she’d see it, hoped one day she’d see Alasdair MacColla in action.

Now her MacColla.

A man so artlessly amused in the telling of his own stories.

And capable of such passion. With a short fuse, it lit to consume him with warrior ferocity as quickly as it had brought words of love to his mouth.

She watched his back for those few paces.

Then he turned to see where she was. They were both silent for a moment. He tilted his head. “Did you not like my tale, then?”

MacColla reached his hand out to her.

She inhaled deeply, walked forward. Haley took his hand and said, “No, MacColla, I loved your tale.”

Those thick black brows of his furrowed suddenly.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“Your feet, leannan .” He dropped to his knees before her. “You’re limping.”

With his hand wrapped around her thigh to steady her, he lifted the opposite foot and drew in his breath sharply.

She put a hand at his shoulder for balance. “I’m all right.”

“Why’d you not tell me? Och,” he growled, and checked her other foot. “You’ve not the feet for such walking.”

He stood and abruptly swooped her into his arms. “You’re a wildcat, aye, but with such tender wee paws.”

“Really, MacColla.” He began to walk on and she pushed at his shoulders in a halfhearted protest. “You can’t carry me all the way to Kintyre.”

“I would.” He guided her arms around his neck. His smile was broad as he stole a kiss from her cheek. “If you asked it.”

“Well, I’m not going to ask it.” She rested her head on him, her feet scissoring in the air, and she let herself enjoy the feel of it. “So what’s your plan then?”

They were approaching a clearing. “My plan,” he said as he set her gently down to lean against a tree near the edge of the copse, “is to see you rest here. We need horses. And, losh, but I need food.”

He leaned and kissed her forehead. “Don’t move, leannan . And please don’t get yourself abducted in my absence.”

He headed back into the forest. Turning, he walked backward a few steps to say, “I’ll return with food and ponies, my fair lass.”

MacColla spun and jogged away. Her smile grew weak.

She’d rest, and think.

And try to figure out how exactly she proposed to keep a war hero from dying.