“What are you staring at?” Catherine asked, smiling at Mary, who had glided down to perch on a rock in the middle of the tiny stream. “Yes,” she said, going to her knees and dipping her hands in the cold water. “If Robbie can talk to you, then I might as well, too.”
But Mary said nothing, not even a rattle.
“He’s blaming you for my being here,” Catherine said, continuing the one-sided conversation. “You made me fall off that ledge and bump my head. That’s the thanks I get for sewing you up.”
Catherine tucked her tangled hair behind her ears, splashed water on her face, scrubbed her cheeks with her hands, then leaned down and drank directly out of the stream. She used the corner of her plaid to wipe her face, stood up, and looked down at Mary—
specifically at the pink threads on her belly.
“You… ah… didn’t get hurt while helping Robbie hunt for that wizard’s tree, did you?”
Mary spread her wings, stretched to her full height, and bobbed her head.
Catherine stepped back in surprise. “What did you say?” she whispered, finally knowing for sure that she was dreaming. She could swear she had heard a voice, a woman’s voice, say that it was time to get back to camp, that there was danger in the woods.
She twisted the knot of her plaid. “H-How do you know that?” she asked, scanning the dense forest as she took another step back. “What MacKeages?” she breathed, staring at the owl, shaking her head to clear it. “What warriors?”
Catherine decided she didn’t carewho was talking, she was getting back to Robbie. She spun on her heel and ran smack into a solid chest. Large arms wrapped around her so tightly her scream of surprise came out as a squeak. She was lifted off her feet, only to find herself nose-to-beard with a wild-haired, dirty-faced, green-eyed giant.
And if that wasn’t enough, the stinky brute was grinning. Or he was until the blade of a sword silently slid between them, right along the man’s neck, actually slicing off some of his beard.
The giant stilled, his eyes rounded in surprise.
Catherine didn’t dare breathe.
Robbie, his voice guttural and soft, said something, in what Catherine guessed was Gaelic, that sounded rather threatening.
Her captor opened his arms without warning. Catherine tumbled to the ground, scurried backward like a frightened crab, and stood, not once taking her eyes off Robbie, who was holding his sword under the man’s chin and glaring at him so hard it was a wonder the guy didn’t fall over.
“Go back to camp, Catherine,” Robbie said, keeping his eyes on the man.
The giant glanced toward Robbie without moving his head and very hoarsely and very quickly started speaking.
Catherine didn’t wait around to see what he had to say and scurried past them and ran toward the clearing, where she found three more giants dressed in the same plaid as Robbie and Ian. They were sitting beside the blazing fire, and Ian was sitting in the middle of them, clutching the hands of one of the men and quietly sobbing.
Two of the men stood as soon as she broke into the clearing, their hands going to the hilts of their swords. Ian and his companion were a bit slower getting to their feet, with the younger man putting a protective arm around Ian.
Okay, she wanted to wake up now.
“Catherine,” Ian said, rushing to her, tears streaming down his face into his beard and his smile so big it must hurt. “This is my son, Niall,” he said, pulling her by the arm over to the large man. “He’s Laird Niall now,” he added excitedly. “That means my son is their leader,” he explained, puffing his chest even further.
Ian then said something in Gaelic to Niall, who was staring at her as if she’d just crawled out from under a rock.
“I’ve been telling him the story we decided on last night,” Ian told her, giving her arm a pat. “Don’t let his glare scare ya, lass. He’s not caring to see ya in that MacBain plaid, is all.”
Niall said something to one of the other men, and the guy frowned at him, then at her, and started undressing. Catherine squeaked and turned away, only to come nose-to-chest with Robbie.
“What is it with you Scots?” she muttered, looking up at him. “You’re always undressing.”
“Better us than you,” he said, reaching around her and taking the man’s plaid. “Here, why don’t you step into the woods and put this on? Then we can go to the village.”
Catherine leaned to the side to peek around him. “Ah… where’s the other guy?” she whispered, taking the plaid—which smelled like a dead horse—and holding it away from herself.
“He decided he wanted to walk home,” Robbie said, nudging her toward the woods.
Without looking back, for fear of seeing the naked Scot, she marched to the trees, still holding the plaid away from herself.
She didn’t realize Robbie was following her until she turned to duck behind a dense bush. “What are you doing? I can change without your help.”
He started unwrapping his own plaid. “I prefer you wear mine.”
Catherine spun away with a groan of frustration. “So, that’s Ian’s son?” she asked, willing her cheeks to cool while she listened to Robbie undress. “And he’s really their leader?”
“Aye. And he’s called a laird,” he said, setting his much nicer-smelling plaid over her shoulder and taking the stinky one out of her hand. “They heard the storm last night and were scouting the area to make sure a fire hadn’t started from a lightning strike. Poor Niall looked as if he was seeing a ghost once he recognized Ian.”
“They believed Ian’s story, that he’s been in England for… for… ” She glanced over her shoulder, only to find herself staring at Robbie’s wonderfully masculine body as he wrapped the smelly plaid around himself. Darn it! What was her question?
Oh, yeah. “How long has Ian been gone? Thirty-five years?”
“Nay. We’ve come back only ten years after Ian left.”
“But he’s eighty-five years old.”
“He has the health of a sixty-year-old of this time.”
Catherine forced herself to tear her gaze away and step behind the thick bush. “Gwyneth will know the difference,” she said, undoing her MacBain plaid and tossing it over a branch.
“You think so?”
“But maybe she’ll be so glad to have him back she won’t care,” Catherine speculated.
“Why did that guy grab me? Because I was wearing the wrong colors?”
“Nay. He didn’t see your plaid, only a young, beautiful, unprotected woman.”
Catherine paled to the roots of her tangled hair. “He would have… he wanted to… ”
“Nay. He wouldn’t have harmed you. He was only thinking he’d found himself a wife.”
“A wife!”
“I warned you that women have little say here. And an unprotected lass is fair game.
Hell,” he said, waving his hand with his back to her. “Stealing wives, especially from other clans, is more of a sport than warring is.”
Catherine stopped trying to figure out how to wrap the plaid as Ian had shown her and stared at Robbie. “You’re kidding, right? Men don’t actuallysteal their wives.”
“Ian stole Gwyneth from the Macleries.”
“And the Macleries didn’t come after her?”
“Now, why would they want to do that? It’s a matter of pride when a daughter is chosen by a MacKeage warrior. The MacKeages are a powerful clan.”
“Does anyoneask the woman if she wants to get married?” Catherine muttered, trying again to adjust the plaid. “Darn it, I can’t get this right.”
Robbie stepped around the bush and took the end of the cloth from her, unwrapped it two wraps, settled it over her shoulders, and tucked it into her cleavage. He smiled when she gasped and took her in his arms and kissed her firmly on the mouth.
Catherine clung to him. She might not be ready to make love to the man, but kissing him back was definitely okay—since this was only a dream. So she surrendered to the need she’d bottled up inside her for so long, canted her head, and grabbed his hair, deepening the contact.