Jules struggled to no avail. The man’s hands were like iron on her waist, and she was laid across the back of a huge black horse, so if she fought him harder, she would probably fall off and hit her head. “Let me go!” she commanded for the billionth time.
Air hit her bare ass, and she couldn’t even reach to yank the shirt down over it. He had her face-down, arms pinned, and damn horseflesh cut into her stomach, stealing her breath. Blood rushed to her head, making her pulse pound in her temples. She wiggled, but he held her tighter. “Seriously! Let. Me. Go.”
He chuckled and held on with only one of his hands.
God, he’s strong.
The guy was huge, too. She was tall for a girl, at five-ten, but this dude had towered over her on the beach. He had to be six-five or six-six, and he was broad, well-muscled, like he lived in the gym. He was hot, too, which just pissed her off. His long dark hair kissed his shoulders, and he had eyes to match.
Another breeze ruffled the shirt, shooting air up her spine. She clenched her thighs and whimpered. No doubt he could see her everything.
His grip burned through the thin linen of the tunic, but he wasn’t hurting her. Not really.
“Hope you’re enjoying the view,” Jules bit at him.
A deep chuckle teased her ears—and made her gut roil. She kicked her legs, trying to flip over and hit him. She’d always hated being restrained, even back in police academy days.
“Calm yerself lass, or ye’ll fall off my horse.”
Jules froze when she felt his big hands on her bare thighs. He brushed higher, getting closer to her girly parts, so she yanked her arm from beneath her and tried to punch his side.
The guy released the hold on her thighs—he only had two hands, after all—and she was able to get a hit in as he tried to grab her wrists.
He missed, she rolled, and clocked him in the ‘nads. Dude cursed—she guessed, it wasn’t English—and Jules took the opportunity to slip from the horse’s back. She landed so hard her bare feet shot pain all the way up to her knees, but the best part was the shock on his face.
Her captor had one hand on his crotch, and those dark eyes were wide. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, staring at her.
“Later, sucker!”
She ran. Harder than she ever had to go after a suspect. Her lungs burned, her legs seared all the way into her quads, and her feet were on fire. Maybe bleeding from the rocky terrain, but she didn’t stop to inspect them.
Hooves on her heels made her push harder.
He was yelling curses and orders from best she could tell, but Jules kept going even after she heard the thud of boots hitting the ground. She didn’t look over her shoulder to see where he was, but he was taller and had a longer stride than her, so she didn’t have a chance if she hesitated even for a second.
Hard hands seized her from behind, and then she was enveloped in his heat. He lifted her off the ground effortlessly and said nothing.
The guy stalked to the horse and threw her on its back, but this time he sat her up properly, swinging up behind her before she had time to react, or think about her bare ass on horsehair—there was no saddle. He wrapped her in his arms, and lifted her so she was sitting on his lap, then pinned her to him. The sound he made deep in his throat shot awareness down her spine and Jules squirmed.
She could feel his anger. He was seething, but he still hadn’t hurt her, despite the steel hold he had going on. His bare chest was hot against her back. And what a chest it was! Despite her own anger, her body was aware of every hard muscle, every defined line she could feel through the shirt she was wearing.
His shirt.
She tingled all over, against her will, worse than when he’d kissed her. Jules shivered and it had nothing to do with the chilly air. After all, she was still flushed from her escape attempt.
What the hell was that kiss about, anyway?
Ugh, don’t even think about it.
“Where’d ye think ye were goin’?” the man barked finally.
“Away from you.”
He growled again, squeezing his arms around her. His hand brushed her belly, then inched up, as if he was contemplating going higher.
“Stop it.” Jules jolted in his arms.
He laughed.
Asshole.
Fury burned and she dug her nails into his wrists. “Are you in the habit of kissing strangers and kidnapping them?”
“Are ye in the habit of wandering naked on the beach?”
Naked.
Like Claire had been when she’d appeared and fallen into Jules’ arms. Somehow, her clothing hadn’t made it to the seventeenth century—if that was where she was—but the scroll had.
And where was Bree?
Jules didn’t remember anything after stepping through the portal. Except her kidnapper shoving her into his shirt and kissing her.
She scanned the beach, but they were moving fast now that he had her again.
Like he doesn’t want to chance a round two.
Jules couldn’t see anything but the rolling waves of the ocean to their right and rocky sandy terrain that bled into grassy hills up ahead.
If she really had traveled through time, the Isle of Skye didn’t look much different.
“Weeeel?” he prompted. “Can ye no’ speak now?”
She didn’t let his thick brogue roll over her body. Totally ignored its appeal, too. He was a barbarian who’d grabbed her, smacked her ass, and hauled her around like a rag doll.
The bastard.
Breath exited her mouth on a whoosh. “I—”
The big horse slowed and the man nudged her shoulder. “Ye, wha’, lass?”
More ‘lass,’ just like in modern-day Scotland.
She hated that she preferred when this guy said it. Jules shook her head. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” I traveled back in time. Actually did it. Magic is real. She trembled.
“Cold?”
“No.” His body heat at her back was keeping Jules warm, staving off the goose bumps on her legs from rising higher. She’d cooled off from her run, but her heart still pounded. As much as she hated to admit it, she was cozy in the barbarian’s unyielding embrace. She wouldn’t tell him that, though. “What year is it?” Jules blurted.
“The year of our lord, sixteen hundred and seventy-five.”
Three years off… “Claire came to 1672.” She spoke more to herself than him, but her captor cocked his head to one side—she felt more than saw it.
“So yer parchment said.”
“Magic,” she whispered.
He didn’t comment. Jules wanted to ask him a hundred things, or demand to know where they were going. She needed to make a plan to find her sister. Then get them home, damn the nonsense about love and marriage. Claire—and Jules—belonged in the twenty-first century.
She’d have to work on getting away from the barbarian first. Then find Bree. Jules was going to need the Irish chick to get home.
“We’re almost there.” He broke the silence as if he could read her mind.
“Where’s there?”
“Armadale.”
Armadale.
She’d heard that name before. The bartender, Rob MacDonald had told her his clan’s stronghold was in ruins—at least in the twenty-first century. “MacDonald.”
The man stilled. “Aye. Ye know of me?”
She glanced over her shoulder and shook her head. “I know Armadale is the stronghold of Clan MacDonald.”
“Aye. My clan.” His tone bled pride.
Jules’ heart skipped a beat. Her mind ran in circles. Websites, books, magazine articles flashed before her eyes, and she didn’t like the math her head was doing. Clans MacDonald and MacLeod were rivals—enemies.
They’d been at war—real war—not even a century before the seventeenth.
How did we end up three years off target?
Never mind that…
If Claire’s letter was at all true, Jules had fallen into the hands of her sister’s husband’s enemy. She swallowed a gulp. Fear skittered up her belly, sliding down her arms and legs. Her pulse thundered in her temples.
What’s he going to do to me?
Police training fled as the reality of what she’d done—where she was—settled over her. Jules was almost naked, without a weapon, and in the arms of a man who’d already proven he had a savage streak. He’d chased her down after she’d punched him in the nuts.
What kind of revenge will he seek?
“Please don’t hurt me.” The words tumbled from her mouth, and she shook in his grip. She twisted around to look at him.
“Who said anythin’ abou’ hurtin’ ye?” The man reared back. Looked insulted.
“My sister married a MacLeod.”
He chuckled. “Poor lass.”
When their eyes met, the satisfaction she read there pushed away her fear, reigniting her anger.
This guy’s a pompous ass.
Jules frowned. She should probably rejoice he didn’t seem angry anymore—about the punch or the chasing. But he was ticking her off.
“Ah, there’s tha’ fire I like. Glare a’ me, lass. Yer no’ weak.”
She narrowed her eyes. “If you’re not going to hurt me, what do you plan to do to me?”
Those dark eyes flashed and Jules’ stomach fluttered.
When his lips parted, her heart kicked up another notch. She remembered his mouth moving over hers against her will. And his hands at her waist—then on her bare thighs.
If she hadn’t been so out of it, she would’ve probably kissed him back.
Stranger or not, the guy could kiss.
I’ve lost it.
Maybe time travel-induced insanity.
Since when am I attracted to pushy bastards?
No. Way.
Not even if the circumstances were different. This guy’s nowhere near my type.
He said nothing, but she couldn’t stop staring at him.
The barbarian stared right back.
The horse kept walking, paying neither of them any attention.
Her kidnapper’s five o’clock shadow begged for her touch. Her fingers twitched in his grip.
Okay.
Seriously?
Knock it off, Juliette McGowan.
“I’ll tell the MacLeods I hold ye captive.”
She jumped when he finally spoke. “C-c-captive?”
“Aye. Yer fer ransom.”