Snickering with an air of superiority, he watched Brigid flitter from one vehicle to the next, opening and closing doors, sitting inside and rubbing her hands over the leather and wood trim. She stretched her legs and adjusted the seatbacks, actinglike his personal collection was a luxury car show.
“You should take your meds,” she said, poking her nose into the cockpit of his black Ferrari F40. “Then I can race you.”
“Racing can wait until Brigid gets her heart back,” Griffin reminded the flighty romance writer with the heart of coal. “Hurry up and pick one. We should get to the abbey before sundown.”
“We can’t go directlythere in case we’re being followed,” Brigid said. She pushed away from the Ferrari and ran her hand over a silver Ashton Martin DB11 Volante convertible. “How fast does this baby go?”
“All my cars are fast,” Griffin said, although he wasn’t going to tell her the Ferrari’s top speed was faster. If they took the Ashton, it would give Myles and Mack the opportunity to keep up with them.
“Great, I like this one,” Brigid said. “Hold onto your hair.”
An image of her red hair exploding like flames burst behind his eyelids, and his heart ached so much he thought he’d collapse to his knees. If he succeeded in going back to the twelfth century, he’d have to sacrifice this redheaded Morrigan, daughter of Richard “Strongbow” de Clare, to give life to the bones of his belovedBrigid.
He could not be weak and give in to caring about this creature. She was evil, and she’d stolen what was his. If he could convince her she was the true Brigid, she’d walk into the bedchamber and exchange her life willingly.
He looped his arm around her shoulders and kissed her pert lips. “You’ll always be my beloved Brigid. Let’s see how fast you can drive.”
