Busy plotting her polite but hasty retreat from his presence, she didn’t realize he’d stopped until he was quite some distance behind her. She turned and gestured impatiently, but his eyes were on the village below.
“Come on,” she shouted. He didn’t appear to hear her. She called for him again, waving her arms to get his attention, but he remained motionless, his gaze locked on the view.
Fine, she decided, this is a great time to leave, and I have a head start. She broke into a sprint down the sloping hillside. Stretching her legs, as if running for her very life, she suddenly felt silly. If the man had truly planned to harm her, he could have done so long before now. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was leaving something incredibly dangerous behind her on the hillside—far more than a simple man—and it was wiser that she did so now.
She ran for several seconds before the missile blasted her from behind. She stumbled and landed on her stomach in a springy patch of purple vetch, trapped beneath his body. He stretched her hands above her head and pressed her against the ground. “I said doona run from me,” he gritted out. “Which word did you have difficulty with?”
“Well, you stopped moving,” Gwen argued. “I called for you. And ouch, dammit, now I hurt all over.”
When he didn’t respond, only raised his body slightly off hers so she could breathe, she became aware of a subtle change in him. His heart was thundering against her back, his breathing was shallow, and his hands were trembling atop hers.
“Wh-what’s wrong?” she asked faintly. What horror could make such strong hands tremble?
He pointed to a car, disappearing down the winding road beneath them. “What in the name of all that is holy is that?”
Gwen squinted. “It looks like a VW, but I can’t tell from this distance. The sun’s in my eyes.”
“A what?”
“Volkswagen.”
“A what wagon?”
“Volkswagen. A car.” Was the man going deaf?
“And that?”
His cheek brushed her temple as she turned her head to gaze where he pointed. “What?” She blinked owlishly. He appeared to be pointing at the inn. “The inn?”
“Nay, that bright thing with colors such as I have never seen. And what of all those leafless trees? What has happened to the trees? And why have they tied cords between them? Think you they will run away if not tethered? Never have I seen oaks so shamed!”
Gwen eyed the neon sign above the inn and the telephone poles in wary silence.
“Well, lass?” He took several slow deep breaths, then said unsteadily, “None of this was here before. I have seen naught of such oddities. It looks as if half the clans in Scotland have settled about Brodie’s loch, and I am quite certain he wouldn’t approve of all this. He is a most private man.” He rolled off her and flipped her over, then pulled her up so she was on her knees facing him. He cupped her shoulders and shook her. “What is a car? What purpose has it?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake—you know what a car is! Stop pretending. You’ve been pretty convincing as the archaic lord, but don’t play any more games with me.” Gwen glared at him, but beneath her anger he was frightening her. He had the most bewildered expression on his face, and she thought she glimpsed a hint of fear in his brilliant eyes.
“What is a car?” he repeated softly.
Gwen began to make a caustic comment, then hesitated. Perhaps he was sick. Perhaps this situation was infinitely more dangerous than she thought. “It’s a machine powered by…er…battery and gas.” She abruptly decided to humor him, giving him the short answer. “People travel in them.”
Soundlessly, his lips formed the words battery and gas. He was very still a moment, then, “English?”
“Gwen,” she corrected.
“Are you truly English?”
“No. I’m American.”
“American. I see—well, not truly, but…Gwen?”
“What?” His questions were starting to scare her.
“In what century do I find myself?”
The breath locked in her throat. She massaged her temples, assailed by a sudden headache. It figured that a man who dripped such raw sex appeal had to be fatally flawed. She had no idea what to say to him. How did one answer such a question? Dare she get up and simply walk away, or would he tackle her again?
“I said, what century is it?” he repeated evenly.
“The twenty-first,” she said, closing her eyes. Was he playing a game? The bold block letters of a newspaper headline blossomed against the insides of her eyelids, crowding out all rational thought: