Ciaran caught her and heaved her up over his shoulder.
“Wait! What are you doing?” she asked as he turned back toward the stone chamber.
Without missing a step, Ciaran said, “I’m keeping you safe.”
“But I want to go home.”
“Aye, well, staying alive will have to do for the now.” His brawny legs made quick work of the rest of the hill. He set her down at the stone chamber’s entrance.
“Well. Here we are,” she said, brushing snow-dampened hair from her eyes. “Would you like to come in for some coffee?” She laughed. “Just kidding.”
He looked at her blankly and then led her back into the stone chamber. Mac shivered, unable to stop.
“I’ll light the fire.” He crouched and pulled a tinderbox from his sporran.
She had slept through the previous firelighting procedure, so she watched with interest. “Where did you come from? I know you said Scotland, but what century?”
“Eighteenth.”
Mac looked for a sign that he was joking. “Yeah, right.”
Mac watched the fire-making process with wonder. He smiled at her, but a hint of sorrow seemed to linger behind it. The fire started, the Scotsman rose and unwrapped the plaid from his shoulder and waist.
“Hold on there, Rob Roy. Keep your plaid on.” She held her palm out with as threatening a look as she could muster.
He stepped back and raised his palms, still holding the fabric between thumb and forefinger. “If you share this with me, we might both stay warm through the night.”
“I wish I had a dollar for every guy who’s said that.”
He made no effort to hide his smile. His gaze swept from her hair to her lips, and his face shone with amusement.
“What?” she said defensively. His gaze lingered until she blushed. “You don’t believe me? It could happen.” His eyes rested on hers with a soft look that warmed her, though she wouldn’t admit it.
“Lass—”
“Call me Mac.”
“Very well. Mac, will you share the plaid with me? It’s very warm.”
Mac was cold enough to do anything to stay warm. She nodded and let him wrap the plaid around her. Her teeth chattered, and he held her.
When she warmed up enough to talk, she smoothed her fingertips over the leather that covered his chest. “Nice jacket.”
“My doublet?”
She grinned and lifted her eyes. “Come on, ‘fess up. Did Cam send you over as a joke?”
“Cam?”
“Because I read Scottish romance books. I get it. Tell her I laughed out loud. Ha.” When he looked at her strangely, she smirked. “Are you some sort of singing telegram, only without the song? Oh, you’re not one of those—y’know—stripping telegrams are you?” She glanced at him and averted her gaze. “Cam’s gone too far.”
“I dinnae ken what you mean,” he said.
She studied him, unsure whether to believe him. She shook her head. “Never mind.” She stared into the fire. Mesmerized by the flickering flames, Mac yawned.
The Scotsman guided her head to his shoulder. “Try to sleep.” His warm breath gave her a chill, but not the cold kind.
Mac nodded. She didn’t need convincing. “I would like to know one thing, though.”
“And what would that be?” His voice sounded amused.
“Who are you?”
“I’ve told you my name.”
“Ciaran what?”
“MacRae.” He rested his cheek on the top of her head.
“Ciaran MacRae,” she said softly. “I can’t figure you out.”
“You can sleep on it, lass.” He brushed his lips over her hair, and then she closed her eyes.
*
Bright sun shone into the stone chamber’s entry. Mac awoke next to Ciaran, warmed by his body. On her arm lay his large hand, rough and well-shaped. She felt safe and at home in his arms. The feeling was foreign, and she didn’t trust it. He stirred and repositioned his arms about her. The plaid was coarse and uneven, as if woven by hand. Mac touched the fabric. Not even Cam would have gone to such trouble.
In response to her touch, he planted a drowsy kiss on her forehead and drifted back to sleep. Mac gasped, shut her eyes, and exhaled. She should wake him, but his breath was so warm on her neck. She wasn’t quite ready to lose the belonging she felt in his arms. That in itself was good reason to leave. She was experiencing some sort of Stockholm syndrome—not that she’d fallen in love! Nor was she held captive. She could leave. It was light out. She could find her way home without him, and she would. Mac eased Ciaran’s hand aside, taking care not to wake him. She was about to slip out of his arms when he murmured something and cupped his hand on her breast.
Mac scrambled to her feet. “Now you’re in trouble.”
Ciaran rose abruptly and looked outside for signs of danger. Seeing none, he took hold of her shoulders. “Are you all right, Mac? Och, ’tis not a proper name for a woman so fair.” His words trailed off as he gazed into her eyes.
She should say something glib to put distance between them, but she just stared, slack-jawed. Too many moments later, she forced her gaze away. “Don’t flatter me, Ciaran. It won’t work.” If she said it enough, she might believe it.
“No, I ken that you wouldnae countenance flattery. ‘Tis why I spoke only the truth.”
God, he’s good. She turned back to him, ready to toss out her best sarcastic quip, but his weightless gaze disarmed her. She lost herself in it, unable to speak. Ciaran smiled an admiring, trustworthy smile. She almost believed it.
Mac wiped snow from the seat of her jeans, turned, and kicked snow onto the fire’s glowing embers. “I’ve got to go.”