Page 12 of Sinful Scot
“Ye’ve a wish to die or ye do nae have brains,” she muttered, glancing once more toward the sky, certain that this time she’d see lightning meant for the foul-mouthed stranger, and she was too close to him not to be hit, as well. She exhaled at the dark sky and crossed herself for good measure, then looked to the man once more. “Did ye fall off yer horse into the water?” she asked, the notion coming to her. That would explain a great deal. Such as why God had not struck the man for the way he used His name and the man appearing as if he’d dropped from the sky. She found herself looking momentarily toward the cliffs that overhung the sea.
“No, I—” He stopped abruptly and nodded. “I fell off my horse. That’s it exactly.”
“Ye’re lying,” she said, fear speeding her pulse. It wasn’t simply the way he’d changed what he was going to say that made her wary. It was the tightness that suddenly underlaid his tone, as if he needed to deceive her but was not quite comfortable with it. That was something, she supposed—to be uneasy about being a liar. Still, it was not enough to keep her near him. She took several more steps back from him and toward the sand, half expecting him to swim forward and grab her. But he stayed where he was, arms working the water to keep his head and shoulders from going under.
“Who are ye?” she demanded with more boldness than she actually felt. Yet, she could not very well call for help. To do so would reveal that she’d been alone with a man, and that would ruin her, would be the end of her betrothal to Baron Bellecote, and would destroy any chance of restoring her family’s lands and castles to their ownership. In turn, it would also destroy Deirdre’s hopes for a husband. It didn’t matter that Maggie did not want to wed a man twice her age, a man she’d met once and had not particularly liked. She would do it for her sister and her brother. Her sister had been like a mother to her when their own had died, and her brother had taken up the role of protector and provider when their father had killed himself. She owed it to them both to ensure her wedding proceeded so the next king would restore the lands and castles as King Alexander had promised. She still could not believe her godfather was dead. But he was. The king had died on the very night she’d arrived at Kinghorn a month ago.
She returned her attention to the man before her, who still seemed lost in his own thoughts. “Never mind,” she grumbled, irritated at her own imprudence for putting herself in this predicament. “It hardly matters. I must make haste to my bedchamber, so I’ll leave ye to yer own accord.”
She had just turned toward the shore when the man called out, “Wait!”
She twisted back toward him, water tugging at her legs. “Do be quiet,” she half begged, half ordered. “If I’m discovered with ye, I’ll be ruined. What is it ye want?”
“I, well, I—” He sounded as if he didn’t know where to begin. Maybe he had fallen off his horse, after all. “I’m looking for my mother.”
That was a relief. Surely a man looking for his mother was a good man. “I’m uncertain I can help ye. I’ve only been at Kinghorn a short while myself.”
The man flinched as if she’d struck him. “Tell me,” he said, his tone almost urgent, “how is the king?”
Maggie’s throat tightened with sorrow. She had not really known King Alexander, even though he had been her godfather. He’d been close to her mother when she’d been alive, but that long-ago bond of kinship had not prevented him from punishing her father when Robert the Bruce had accused Father of fleeing his side in the Battle of Blackstone, causing Bruce to lose. That accusation had destroyed her family. Still, she was sad for the loss of the king.
“Ye have nae heard?”
The man shook his head.
“He’s dead,” she told him. “He fell from a cliff when making his way from Edinburgh to Queen Yolande’s side.” It suddenly occurred to her that the man had changed the subject before she could try to help him find his mother. “Who is yer mother?”
“Her name is Shona MacKinnish,” he said, and Maggie’s stomach dropped. “Do you know her?”
She turned and fled, knowing for certain now that the man was lying to her. She’d only met Shona MacKinnish once, but once had been enough to know that the young woman was definitely not old enough to be this man’s mother. She splashed the rest of the way out of the water and raced across the rocky sand, the stone she’d been careful walking upon before now cutting into the soft soles of her feet. She didn’t stop to gather the gown she’d carelessly discarded before she’d entered the water. Her life, her virtue, was more important than her reputation. She ran blindly, her ankles twisting on the uneven terrain.
Behind her, the stranger called for her to stop, sounding more as if he was pleading than threatening, but she was no fool. She pushed on harder, and once she reached the edge of the rocks, she shoved through the brambles, hoping to find cover there. Then she would wind toward the stairs and gain them before the stranger saw her, if she was lucky. Twigs snapped underfoot, and the branches scratched at her face, her arms, and her legs as she ran. Just as she saw the brambles split ahead to a path to the stairs, hands grasped her arms from behind, jerking her to a halt. She was left with no recourse but to scream for her life. And that she did with great gusto.
Disorientation and disbelief did not come close to describing what Rhys was feeling. Shock and a sickening sense of guilt were a good start. If he could believe his own eyes and ears, which he preferred to do since the alternative was that he’d lost his mind, then he was no longer in the twenty-first century, nor was he in New Orleans. Where were his brothers? Had they travelled?Hell.His last thought in his dad’s study came to him suddenly. They didn’t know to roll the gh.Christ.He hadn’t really believed it even possible to time travel, so he hadn’t bothered to tell them about Gaelic pronunciation. Did that mean they hadn’t travelled? His mind did not want to wrap around any of this, but as he clamped a hand over the screaming woman’s mouth, he forced himself to face what was happening now and accept it. Every gut instinct he possessed told him that if he didn’t, he would not survive the night, let alone find his mother. His worries about his brothers had to be pushed aside for now.
The woman squirmed and kicked, trying to free herself as he put one arm around her waist and kept his other hand firmly pressed to her mouth. She tensed and trembled beneath his touch. He didn’t like what he had been compelled to do. He didn’t like it one bit. In his own time—did I really just think that?—he would never restrain a woman against her will, and he’d punch any man he saw doing so.
But did he have a choice? He quickly examined the situation. If what his father had told them and what he’d written down were actually true, then his mother knew some of the people who had conspired to kill the king of Scotland.
Every thought faded except for one: his mother couldactuallybe here. His mind refuted it, but his chest tightened at the prospect. Was she being hunted? Was she in danger? He had to find her. He had to find her, help her, and bring her back to his father. Could they even return the way they’d come? Howhadthey come? Was there atheyor was it justhim?
A hard kick to his shin ended the thoughts battering his mind like bullets fired from a machine gun. The woman let out an angry grunt, then attempted to kick him again, but he swiped his leg in front of hers and trapped both her legs neatly and tightly between his. He was a complete and total ass for how he was treating her, but he had to make sure she didn’t bring guards to them. He suspected they would take one look at him and either throw him in a dungeon or hang him. He’d read enough history to know how they treated people in the thirteenth century. There was no such thing as being innocent until proven guilty.
“Listen to me,” he said, lowering his voice and bringing his mouth close to her ear so she didn’t miss anything he said. “Please. I’m sorry I’m scaring you. I promise, I hate this even more than you do.”
Her response was a snort, followed by an attempt to buck her body. He had no wish to continue manhandling this woman. “If I remove my hand from your mouth, will you promise not to scream?”
She nodded enthusiastically, and he started to do what he’d offered, but then he hesitated. Of course she’d promise not to scream. If someone had a gun to his head and told him they’d lower it if he promised not to bolt, he’d nod and then bolt the minute that gun was down. This situation was exactly the same. Physically, he was an imminent threat to this woman, though. The top of her head just grazed his chin, and she was slight.
“If you scream,” he said, “I’m going to have to resort to extreme measures.”Would he? Doubtful. He could not hurt a woman. Lie.“Do you understand?”
She nodded again, and he removed his hand from her mouth. She sucked in a deep breath. “Let me go,” she growled in a low voice.
He did. Mostly. He kept one hand circled around her wrist. He winced when he felt her pulse beating like a bird wildly flapping its wings. “I’m sorry I scared you. Why did you run?”
She faced him then, and though it was dark, he couldn’t help but notice the outline of her curves under the thin material of the léine she must have been wearing under her gown, which he’d seen in a heap on the ground by the water. He could barely make out her expression with just the moonlight, but he could see that her eyes were narrowed on him. She’d tilted her head back to look at him, and her eyes had gone from large and round to slits.
“Because ye lied.”
