Then the rug tore and sent her tumbling backward into free fall through the darkness. A shrill, desperate scream ripped free of her as she flailed and fought the fall. She was going to die. This was too real to be a dream.
“Lass—woman!” A pair of large, powerful hands caught her by the shoulders and gently shook her. “Stop yer caterwauling and open yer eyes. Ye’re safe.”
A man’s voice? She froze, held her breath, and kept her eyes shut.
“Aw, bloody hell, woman. Daren’t ye die on me.” He pressed his head against her chest. It was warm and heavy, making her panic even more until he lifted it. “Thank the fates. Yer heart still beats.”
A callused touch brushed across her forehead and temple, pushing her hair back from her face. She kept her eyes shut, continuing to play dead or at least, in a dead faint. If it worked for possums, it might work for her.
Wherever she was, it smelled—different. This place was no scented candle and incense burning massage room. It reeked faintly of wood smoke and not so faintly of a man who didn’t exactly stink but wasn’t just out of the shower fresh, either. He possessed a natural, fragrance-free scent that was the pure, raw maleness of pinewoods, mountain air, and maybe a day’s worth of sweat. She risked easing in a deeper breath and strained to hear the slightest sound. Whisky. Or some sort of alcohol barely hung in the air. Beer maybe? No. It was ale. Just like the one Lilias had offered her to try. The only sound was the wind outside and maybe rain. Wherever she was had a window that was partially opened because the damp air whispered across her, and she hadn’t seen a ceiling fan since arriving in Scotland.
“I ken ye’re awake, lass. Yer wee nose is twitching like a cat’s whiskers when it’s tracking a mousie.”
Whatever she was lying on shifted, and his warmth warned he’d moved closer.
“Open yer eyes. I’ll not hurt ye.”
What choice did she have? She was not only weaponless but also without her phone and couldn’t call for help. She opened her eyes and choked on a sharp intake of air as she locked her gaze on Mr. MacSexy. Coughing and wheezing, she rolled away from him, scrambling to escape. She hit the hardwood floor with a hard thud, spotted the door, and shot for it.
His arm snaked around her waist and yanked her back against a wall of muscle. “I said I’d not harm ye, but neither will I let ye run away.”
She kicked, clawed, and pinched him. Twisting around, she tried to bite him. Anything she could think of to make him let go. She had to get out of here—wherever here was—and find someone to help her.
He resettled his footing and blew out a heavy sigh, then tossed her onto the bed and pointed at her. “Stay!”
“I am not a dog.” Although she couldn’t resist baring her teeth in case he doubted she would bite him if she could.
“Aye, and I am not a man with a great deal of patience. I said I wouldna hurt ye, and I always keep my word. Now, stop it, and tell me yer name.”
“You first.” She didn’t care that she sounded like a bratty child. Whatever had got her wherever this was gave her license to behave any way she wanted.
He glowered at her, then folded his arms across his chest, which looked much broader and more muscular than it had in the picture on that freaking app that had gotten her here. He was also a great deal taller than she had imagined. Mr. MacSexy had the height of a grizzly bear stretched up on its hind legs, the build of the biggest offensive lineman in the NFL, and the smug drool-worthiness of a male model. His only flaw was a fresh scar that ran down his right cheek and damned if that didn’t make him even more handsome.
She glowered back at him. This was a guy she could find all sorts of reasons to hate because if past experience had taught her anything, men who looked like him were jerks. And he was already grouchy. She mimicked his stance, folding her arms across her chest even though she sat in the middle of what she assumed was his bed. Which was slightly disconcerting. Should she really push her luck with this guy? Especially since, here of late, all her luck had been bad?
“Tell me your name, and I’ll tell you mine,” she said, trying to sound civil, calm, and not in the least afraid—which was a lie. She was a hair away from a hysterical nervous breakdown.
“Grant MacAlester, laird of Clan MacAlester, and since Mairwen probably already told ye, I am also the Earl of Suddie.” He gave her a curt nod. “And ye are?”
He knew Mairwen. That meant Mairwen knew him and hadn’t said a flipping word about it when Harmony had shown her his picture. Resentment and a sense of betrayal filled her. She had trusted Mairwen, thought they might even end up being friends. “I’m Harmony Tamson. How long have you known Mairwen?”
“’Tis a pleasure to meet ye, Miss Tamson,” he said with a grumpiness that called it the lie that it was. “And I have known the old witch for as far back as I can remember.”
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