She moved closer to the circle of firelight and opened the blanket wide. There between her breasts appeared a bright red handprint. A verylargehandprint.
“Taggart!” Her enraged bellow echoed across the mountain. She put the anger to use by kicking a nearby log into the flames. Embers crackled and popped, sending a beacon of sparks spiraling up into the darkness. What the hell had he done while she slept—branded her like she was some sort of cow?
He crashed out of the bush, thundering toward her with his sword swinging in a menacing arc. His icy eyes flashed a fiery red as he poised for the attack. Bare-chested, wet hair loose and dripping down his hard planes of muscle, he looked like a wild barbarian in the half-light of the fire. “What is it? What threatens ye?”
“Nothing threatens me!” She whirled upon him, opened the blanket, and exposed the handprint. “Would you care to explain how this got here?”
He coughed and turned aside, resettling his grip on his sword as he lowered his arms. “Ye were sick with a fever.” He cleared his throat again, then dragged a hand across his eyes, trying to look anywherebut at her chest. “Ye had to be healed. Ye were delirious. Out of yer mind. Dammit, woman, there was no other way.”
She snapped the blanket back around her body and fixed him with her bestI know you are lyinglooks. “So I was delirious with a fever? You expect me to believe that?”
“Aye. Ye were delirious.” He raked his wet hair back from his face, then sheathed his claymore.
Headed for another shirt, she stumbled and tripped over the blanket then cursed the rock that jammed her big toe. She hopped and yanked the blanket out of the way. “What made you think I was delirious with some mysterious fever?”
The muscles in his jaw rippled and flexed. In a slow deliberate movement, he folded his arms across his chest. “Ye dinna believe me? Be careful what ye wish for, little Guardian, because with just one word and a wave of my hand, I can return the memory to that stubborn little head of yers.”
Fresh shirt in hand, she moved back to the fire. She should have never come to Scotland, especially not with such an infuriating individual. “I haven’t known you that long, but I know I am not a bad person. What could I have done that justified ripping opening my shirt and branding me?” She met his narrow-eyed glare and shot it back at him. He needed to spit it out. She was freezing to death, jet-lagged, and in no mood for twenty questions. “You’re the one who better be coming up with some explanations. As soon as I finish getting dressed and get this fire stoked, we’re going to discuss this little chronological announcement you made down at the spring. Remember? The one that kicked off my little roller-coaster blackout.”
With a muttered curse, he strode across the clearing and clapped his hands in her face. “Esromer!”
She tasted his kiss as though he had just lifted his mouth from hers. The fresh rasp of his stubbled jaw scratched anew across her flesh. Her body flushed hot, nipples tightening and breasts aching for the return of his touch. It all rushed back to her. Every sensation. That had been one exhilarating kiss. She had reached out to him, wanting more, but . . .no. It hadn’t been him. She inwardly cringed, recalling she had called out Jake’s name. Well, then Taggart shouldn’t be upset. She hadn’t tried to cause him some moral dilemma about intimacy with his charge. “I wasn’t kissing you. You know I thought it was Jake. Right?”
He stormed away, stomping across the clearing. He paused and shot an angry glare back at her. “Aye, that makes it so much better. Thank ye verra much, Hannah.”
She fumbled out of her ripped blouse, yanked on the fresh shirt, then wadded the blanket into a ball and lobbed it over to her pack. She had no trouble maintaining a healthy body temperature now. His attitude kept her plenty warm. He didn’t have to be so surly and still owed her a lot of explanations. “I don’t know why you’re so upset. You must not have enjoyed the kiss. I don’t remember you pushing the advantage.”
He rolled his eyes and stopped her with a lifted hand. “I amnottaking that bait. Many a man down through the ages has met his downfall by following that line of conversation with a woman.” He circled around the edge of the clearing, gathered a few sticks of wood, and tossed them on the fire. “Have ye seen Gearlach? He was supposed to watch over ye while I took a swim.”
She frowned and shook her head. “No. I’ve been here alone, and why would I need someone to watch over me? I can take care of myself. Believe it or not I’ve lived this long without you watching my every move.”
Slinging back his still-dripping hair, he eyed her as though she had lost her mind. “I just healed ye from a delirious fever. And need I remind ye of the attack on your life but a few days ago?”
“Fair point.” She picked up a stick and stirred the coals, grudgingly mesmerized by the glowing embers at the base of the dancing flames. She had tried to put the memory of the felled trees from the attack at Jasper Mills to the back of her mind. “Which reminds me, you said you had taken care of Gearlach since he was a hatchling, and he’s now five hundred years old. Exactly how old does that make you?” She raised her stick from the coals and watched the flamesdancing on its tip. Not a sound could be heard except for the crackling fire and the distanthoot-hootingof an owl.
She turned with the flaming brand in her hand, anxious to hear his answer. “Well? How old are you? If you’ve been babysitting Gearlach all his life, you have to be older than five hundred years.”
Face drawn and lined with weariness, he dragged his way back to her as though trudging to the gallows. “Why does my age matter? Ye didna bat an eye at the sight of an eighteen-foot Draecna. Yet ye fainted when ye learned I was over five centuries old.”
He is not human. She tossed the stick and rubbed the chill bumps on her arms as she peered deeper into the iciness of his gaze. She had seen him smile plenty of times. No fangs. At least, none that she had noticed. So what exactly was he? She swallowed hard to fight the knot in her throat. Her voice rasped with uncertainty. “Answer the question. How oldareyou? Andwhatare you?”
His mouth went flat and tight as he lifted his chin. His fierce blue eyes filled with challenge. The chiseled planes of his body tensed as he stalked around the dancing flames of the fire. “My name is Taggart de Gaelson, eldest son of the Royal House of Cair Orlandis. I am seven hundred and seventy-seven years old, and from another reality. From Erastaed, a world on the other side of the portal of Taroc Na Mor, ancestral home to the race of the sacred Draecna. I am chosen Protector from the Guild of Barac’Nairn, watchers over the blessed Guardians.”
“Blessed Guardians?” She wet her lips. Or tried to. The movement proved futile; her mouth had gone drier than the sands of the Sahara.
He nodded. “Aye, that would be you.”
She sank to a fallen log and leaned back against a tree. With her fingers dug into the sponge of the rotted bark, she gulped in a ragged breath of the dank, loam-scented wood. She ground her palms against the log until it splintered between her fingers, then stuck her nails back into the damp, crumbling bark. If she held something tight enough, his words might make more sense.
“Seven hundred and seventy-seven years old,” she repeated, as though mumbling a spell. “Born in a world called Erastaed.” If shesaid it aloud it might make it easier to accept. Or not. This couldn’t be real. She pressed the back of her hands to check the heat of her forehead as she choked out, “How is it I have never heard of Erastaed? And nobody can live to be over seven hundred years old.” She stared at him, looking for the slightest shift in his expression. “Is this a terrible joke? None of what you are saying can be true.” She closed her mind against her nagging inner voice. The voice whispering that if Taggart’s words couldn’t be true, then how could she explain Gearlach?
With a bitter huff, he turned and tossed another log into the middle of the fire. A shower of sparks exploded into the night as the flames licked higher. “Do ye not think it a bit conceited to believe this world is the only reality in existence?”
She covered her face with shaking hands as an icy shiver of recognition tickled teasing fingers up her spine. Granny had told wondrous folk tales to her when she was a little girl. The eerie bedtime stories often portrayed Hannah as the heroine and never failed to lull her to sleep. But surely, that was all they had been—stories to entertain a lonely child. She couldn’t wrap her mind around this. Jet lag. Strange country. A creature that looked like he belonged in one of her mythology books, and now an annoying, sexy guide who turned out to be from some other reality.
Not bothering to open her eyes, she pinched the bridge of her nose. “Well, you know how self-centered we earthlings can be. But why don’t you humor me and just tell me the name of your world again? I’m afraid I’m in information overload right now, and I didn’t quite catch it earlier. Could you please repeat it so I’ll know exactly where you are from?”
The log shifted as he joined her, causing her to lurch against his side. Scrabbling her way to the other end of the teetering seat, she picked up on the mischief in his eyes. The man, or whatever he was, delighted in baiting her. She gritted her teeth. “Are you going to tell me where you are from or not?”
