Ellie sat on her favorite stone at the top of the ruins, pencil in hand, and stared down at the blank page of the workbook before her. It was no use. Her concentration was shot. She raised her hand, stifled a yawn, and shook her head to clear it. Though barely midday, the events of the previous night had meant she'd had very little sleep.
Her 'guest' had snored like the bear she mistook him for.
But at least he didn't smell like one now.
It had taken hours, but with warm water, a cloth and lots of perseverance, she managed to get the stranger reasonably clean and dry. His hair still needed proper washing, and a bath wouldn't go astray, but when finally finished, she'd felt rather pleased with her efforts.
And somewhat surprised.
No longer covered in blood and grime, his face was very appealing. Not the kind of clean-cut, cosmetic beauty most men strived for, but the rugged good looks of the ancients of the land she studied. A stern brow, strong jaw, slightly crooked nose, there was something about him that exuded an undeniable masculinity that she found disconcerting.
A handsome Highlander.
A smile crept to her lips as visions of cheesy romance novel covers flashed through her thoughts—including the book she kept tucked away in her swag, where none of her colleagues could ever find it.
That kind of literature was just fantasy.
As she stood, pulled over her hood, and headed along the path to the base of the ruins, an image of the stranger's muscular shoulders as she bathed them, shimmered before her. Warmth tingled through her body, settled in her belly.
She adjusted her glasses, and cleared her throat.
What nonsense.
No one feels that kind of desire for someone after only one encounter. Well. She couldn't exactly call it a date.
Following the muddy trail toward the cottage, she reached up and rubbed her aching neck. Last night, after being unable to lift his enormous frame onto the bed, she'd resigned herself to putting the mattress on the floor and rolling him onto it.
Once satisfied he was covered and comfortable, she was grateful to crawl into her sleeping bag which had been stretched across the bare bed slats. No wonder her back ached.
A hot soak would be great right now. There was an old hip bath in the cottage. Mr. MacTavish had stacked firewood in it. She stepped onto the flagstone landing, stomped the excess dirt from her boots, reached for the door handle, and turned it.
"Oww!" Something fierce grabbed her wrist and throat then yanked her into the cottage. Wha..?
Winded, she couldn’t breathe as speckles danced before her eyes. Pressure tightened around her neck. She kicked out but her legs were no longer touching the ground. What in the hell?
Desperate, she clasped at the arm around her neck, her fingers clawing to get hold and pull the limb away.
"Where did you get this?" A deep voice growled in her ear, sent shivers hurtling along her spine. But the question wasn't in English.
Though hazy, she understood the heavy Gaelic brogue.
Head spinning, she tried to focus on the object held before her face. It was the emerald encrusted kilt pin that Mr. MacTavish had shown her weeks ago. "The . . . the site. Ru . . . ruins."
The steely arm released her, and she dropped to the floor.
Coughing, she clasped her throat, and struggled to take in a deep breath. Without looking up, she scrambled backward until her backside whacked into a cupboard.
Her chest heaved, as she struggled to gain her senses. "What in hell do you think you're doing?"
"You’re a woman." This time he spoke in broken English.
"Nice of you to notice." Shaky, she got to her feet, composing herself as she pushed back her hood, and straightened her glasses. Rubbing the stinging grazes on her palms, she rued the fact she’d used most of her antiseptic supply on the wretch's wound.
"Why are you dressed as a man?"
She grimaced. "Why are you standing there stark naked?"
And he was.
In the awkward silence, she realized she was staring at the stranger, his bare form towering above her.
His jaw was set in a frown. His head tilted. "I dinna mean to hurt . . . Where's ma bloody plaid, woman?"
How charming.
"I ate it!" She crossed her arms and met his steely gaze. Two, deep golden eyes stared back at her. They reminded her of a lion she'd seen up close in Africa. Focused, determined and, no doubt, just as dangerous.
"You ate it?"
"Don't be stupid. I washed the bloody thing, and by hand, mind you. Took all night to dry. What do you think I did with it? You come in here, half dead, caked in mud and bleeding everywhere . . ."
He stepped toward her.
She raised her hand. "That's far enough, you ungrateful sod."
"MacKinnon."
"What?"
"Ma name. Ewan MacKinnon."
Seething, she nodded, then opened a cupboard door beside her. "Right, Mr. MacKinnon." She took a large bundle from a shelf and slammed it onto the nearby table. "I haven't got your shirt. It had to be cut away so I could stitch your bloody wound. But here is your plaid. Here are your belts. Over there is your damn sword and boots, and behind you is the door. Use it and get out!"
Anger pulsated through every fiber of her being, and for a moment she saw Michael standing there, facing her wrath. If only.
She'd never been that brave with her former professor.
Holding her gaze, he took the tattered plaid, secured it around his hip, and examined the empty dagger sheath.
One of his eyebrows rose. "And did you wash ma dagger too?"
Her jaw dropped. She stepped back, but could go no further, the cottage wall behind her. "I don't believe it. Now I'm accused of stealing your things? I'll have you know that I have a collection of real antique weapons that would put your reproductions to shame!"
A flicker of uncertainty flashed in his eyes, as if he didn't quite understand what she had said, but didn't want ask.
He fastened his belt, and moved toward her. "You are Sassenach."
"Sassenach?"—Then it hit her—"Oh. Yes. What of it? You make it sound like a dirty word. I'm English and proud of it. Look, I think you have carried on your little game a bit too far. The girls that attend your recreation adventures might like that rough stuff, but I don't. Now. For the last time, get your things and go, before I phone the police. If need be, I could have a helicopter here in minutes, so I suggest you leave now."
Lord, she hoped he wouldn't call her bluff; her bravado was only skin deep. With the satellite dish fried, there would be no way she could contact anyone.
He stepped closer still, his expression now one of intent fascination.
Her pulse quickened. What was he looking at? Perhaps she had helped a psychopath after all.
Damn it. Okay. Remain calm. If he's dangerous, better not to aggravate him.
She inhaled a steady breath, and exhaled a silent prayer for strength.
He looked down at her, his body so close now she could feel the heat radiating from his bare torso, smell the very male scent surrounding her. That alone caused strange new feelings within her she really didn't appreciate right now.
He touched her glasses, took them gently from her face and stared at them, a puzzled look on his face. "I am injured?"
"Yes." Damn—it was hard holding her nerve with him so close. "You were stabbed in the back."
A curious look gleamed in his eyes. "You sealed ma wound?"
"Yes, I did. Not that you deserved it. Wait. No. Don't take my glasses away."
"You’re right. I dinna deserve it." He leaned into her, ran a finger softly down the side of her cheek and touched under her chin. "But I want to thank you."
Damn him.
Every molecule in her traitorous body burned, tensed, threatened to go into meltdown. Her jaw quivered, a whisper escaped her. "Helicopter . . . ten minutes . . ."
Her lips were crushed beneath his sudden force, his mouth overwhelming, his tongue demanding contact without delay. One of his hands held the small of her back, the other trailed the curve of her hip, then clutched her buttock, pinned her to him.
Fear collided with excitement, as tiny spurs of pleasure prickled her skin and sent her heartbeat racing.
This was wrong.
Him.
This kiss.
Had to be.
But as she closed her eyes and succumbed to his passionate onslaught, the reasons why seemed to slip away.
His hand drifted from her back to her neck, then slid down and caressed her breast with a tenderness that surprised her, excited her, made her reach up around his neck, draw him down and deepen his kiss.
She tasted him, near devoured him. Earthy, masculine, incredible— everything Michael had never been. But who was he?
Realization gripped her. She pulled away from his lips, unsure and embarrassed.
Damn, she was such an idiot.