I saw him then, tangled in a patch of undergrowth at the water’s edge, like a piece of driftwood. He was sprawled face-up across a flat rock, clothes splattered with mud, laces of his brown hiking boots floating in the swift current. He wasn’t moving.
My jeans wicked up the frigid water as I splashed through the shallows toward him. His head lay cocked at an angle that hid his face. I couldn’t tell if he was even alive.
“Oh God oh God oh God.” A crimson ribbon of blood trickled from his dark hair to stain the mossy rock.
“Hey,” I called. “Hey, can you hear me? Are you okay?”
The stranger’s ripped shirt lay open beneath a crumpled camp jacket, revealing a terrible scrape across a tanned chest. His visible hand hung bruised and still, the long tapered fingers dangling in the water.
What if he’s dead? What do I do?
Dread dug sharp claws into my spine as I splashed to his side. His chest moved up and down.
Thank God.
I carefully shook his shoulder. “Hey! You all right? Wake up. Can you hear me?”
Nothing.
My mind raced as I tried to decide what to do. Stay with him so he doesn’t roll off and drown? Ride back to the house and call 911? Do they even have 911 here? Dammit, why didn’t I bring my phone?
An expensive-looking camera hung around his neck. The source of the glint I’d seen. The display screen had brightened to life when I shook him. When I saw the image it displayed, my mouth dropped open.
“What the hell?”
“Not bad, eh?” I nearly toppled over as he muttered in a voice creaky with pain. “Of course, it likely won’t win any prizes. But you have to admit, the composition’s quite lovely.”
I didn’t respond as I jerked the camera toward me and scrolled through the images. He was right. The light, the setup, the arrangement of each image highlighted the stark, breathless beauty of the Scottish Highlands. It wasn’t the background that freaked me out, though. It was the subject.
Every photo—more than a dozen—was a close-up of me.
My eye twitched. “Who are you? Why were you taking pictures of me?”
Dark, damp hair was plastered over his forehead, though with blood or water, I wasn’t sure. I could see now that he was around my age. Sixteen. Seventeen, maybe. He gave a little groan as he scraped the hair back and turned his face toward me.
Then, he opened his eyes.
Behind a fringe of black lashes, his left eye was a soft green, like sunlight on moss. The right, the brilliant blue of an October sky. As I stared down at him, the world warped around me.
The rush of water grew muted and distant. My nose and chest filled with the stench of . . . smoke? Yes. Wood smoke, tinged with a sickly sweetness of charred meat. Somewhere, a fire crackled and popped like bacon in a pan. Screams. The thump of hooves. A winey scent of overripe apples.
“Hello?” a voice called from far away. I clung to it like a lifeline.
The river’s gurgle returned, and I suddenly realized I was standing in the middle of a swift current, gaping down at a complete stranger.
“I know what you’re thinking, love.” The words came out husky, his accent more blue-blood than Highlander. “You’re wondering how someone so strong, so handsome, and so obviously endowed with athletic ability could’ve gotten himself thrown from a bloody horse.” He winced as he sat up and swung long jean-clad legs over the side of the rock. “The answer is quite simple, really.”
His camera still in my hand, I yanked on the strap. He groaned when it jerked his head forward. I tilted it to read the brass plate bolted to the side. PROPERTY OF BRAN CAMERON. IF FOUND, PLEASE RING . . . When I let go, the heavy camera struck against his chest with a satisfying thwack.
Edging a few steps back, I asked through stiff lips, “Why were you taking pictures of me, Bran Cameron?”
At first I thought he was ignoring me as he examined the blood smeared on his fingers. “Forgive me, won’t you? I’m, uh . . . feeling a bit off.”
With a moan, his head dropped into his hands.
“Crap,” I grumbled, torn between irritation and pity. “Are you okay?”
And what the hell do you do if he’s not, Walton?
Bran raised his head and gave me a wobbly grin. One of his canines was crooked. Oddly, it made me feel better, because the rest of him looked as if he’d been drafted by an architect. All clean lines and straight edges. He wasn’t beautiful, the nose a bit too long, the lips sculpted instead of full. Though his jawline was sharp enough to cut glass, it was his eyes I couldn’t look away from. Those peculiar, mismatched eyes.
“I know you.” The words tumbled out before I could stop them.
“I don’t think so, love.” He peered at me. “I can assure you if we’d ever met, I’d remember. I have an uncanny ability to remember pretty girls.”
Pretty? Me? Yeah. Sure.