But now was not the time for sorrow or regret. Her mother had been dead three years, and she must be responsible for her own wellbeing. As God was her witness, the first thing she intended to do after she found Harpy was go back and speak to that old woman in the little hut. There could be little harm in simply talking to her and once she realized who their father’s cousin was, she was likely to greet them courteously as Piers de Montgomerie was, after all, her neighbor.
It really didn’t matter to Elizabet whether those accursed men approved or nay, because if they refused to go back to beg for directions, Elizabet would go alone—fie on them all!
She was tired of aimlessly wandering these woodlands with four men who didn’t seem to be able to follow the noses on their faces, seeking a distant relative she had never met—who probably had no inkling she even existed—and who likely had no room or inclination to care for her and no desire to put forth the effort to see her provided for.
It seemed her life had gone to the bloody dogs.
Aye, for all she knew, Piers might turn them away the instant they found him. Why, after all, would he wish to be saddled with the bastard child of a cousin he wasn’t the least obliged to?
She studied the forest for some sign of Harpy.
Where the devil could the dog have gone?
It was getting late, and the woods were beginning to darken. The bright greens had turned to grays, and fireflies began to twinkle before her eyes.
“Harpy!” she called again, and then suddenly she heard an answering bark in the distance. “There you are!” she muttered, and began to run.
God’s truth, she didn’t know what she’d do without that silly, cantankerous hound!
She followed the sound of barking into a tiny copse, only to freeze, startled by her discovery.
CHAPTER 3
He was by far the biggest man Elizabet had ever encountered, but his coos as he spoke to Harpy were gentle as a dove’s. He knelt at a distance, coaxing Harpy to come to him, and his size was evident even crouched upon his haunches.
“Here, doggy,” he was saying. He clapped his hands. “Here, doggy, doggy!”
Despite that it appeared he was trying to steal her dog, Elizabet swallowed her protest as she watched him, fascinated by the juxtaposition of his size and his gentility.
Deep golden hair framed a face that was almost too lovely for a man, and even in the twilight, she could clearly see the brilliant blue of his eyes.
Fireflies twinkled between them, giving Elizabet the dizziest sensation as she stared.
She had to remind herself to breathe.
He was wearing the most barbarous garment—something like the ancient togas she’d seen depicted in the drawings in her mother’s manuscripts, but with brilliant color. And his legs were bare, thick and muscular. His arms were uncovered, too, as was most of his chest. And his only accoutrement was an enormous sword in his scabbard.
“Lord!” she whispered, remembering herself suddenly.
She scrambled behind the nearest tree, though somehow, she didn’t quite fear him. Something about his demeanor and the good-natured look in his eyes set her at ease. Still, she peered at him around the tree trunk, her heart hammering fiercely. “Sweet Mary,” she said low.
He must have heard her, because he glanced in her direction suddenly.
Their eyes met.
Whatever words Elizabet might have uttered in that instant were forgotten as she stared into those clear blue eyes.
Copper hair, chiseled brows, and lips so full and red they appeared painted were Broc’s first impressions of the girl.
He didn’t recognize her though he knew most folks in these parts, except for a few who had settled here with David’s Lyon—the Englishman who had earned a piece of this land through his sword arm, and then kept it by his wits. His marriage to a Brodie would never have bought him loyalty but it seemed he had earned it just the same.
Curiosity needled him and he found himself wishing she would come out from behind the tree so he could get a better glimpse at her.
“Who are you, lass?”
She gave him a narrow eyed look from behind the tree. “Why should I tell you?”
English by the sound of her voice, he surmised and he reasoned she must belong to Lyon Montgomerie—though what the hell was she doing alone this far on MacKinnon land?
