“I’m rabbitting on,” he says, almost abashed. Like he’s uncomfortable in his own skin.
It’s so strangely modern. For a second, I see him clearly. Not a boy. Not yet a man.
That thought feels too intimate. Too dangerous. I shove it away. What am I doing, getting comfortable with him? All I know about Callum is that he basically held me hostage in a shack.
I mean, time travel? It’s impossible. There’s no such thing.
I have to get out of here. I need help.
I scoot back, but there’s nowhere to go. “Look, I’m sure you’re not a bad person.”
Why am I even sitting here with him? Is it because he saved me from some pervert? Ludicrous. As ludicrous as the idea that people can travel back and forth through time.
This pantry is too small. Too tight. I squirm for room, but he’s too close. “I’d really like to leave now.”
I picture Callum’s broken nose. The knife scars. The way he exploded at the man from the stables, as if prepared to kill him.
What could a guy like that do to me?
The thought is a match to gasoline. Bile rises in my throat. Too close. Too trapped. I can’t get any space. Something inside me detonates.
“I have to go.” I clamber over him. He grunts as my elbows and knees dig into him. I fling myself at the door. Shove it open.
If this Campbell person is so rich and important, he’ll have a cell phone. I’ll bet he can get me to the airport. Get me out of here.
“Wait.” I feel Callum’s hand graze my ankle, but I startled him. I’m moving too quickly, and I slide through his fingers, scrambling out of the pantry.
I bound to my feet and take off down the hall, sprinting into the pub.
As I skid to a stop, all eyes snap to me. None land as heavily as the gaze of one man. I know him at once. Arrogant, angry, entitled. The only person in the room who could be the Campbell.
Our eyes meet.
I’ve made a huge mistake.
He’s older, about Poppa’s age, but there’s nothing grandfatherly about him. He’s clearly the richest man here. Like the others, he wears a kilt, but his is clean and crisp, the plaid wool sweeping over his shoulder and fastened with a silver crest—big, gaudy, studded with green stones that look alarmingly real. His shirt is worse. Blindingly white, with ridiculous flouncy bits at the neck and sleeves.
But it’s the people around me that give him away. Every single one of them looks afraid.
And with good reason.
He looks pissed.At me.
He’s not just staring—he’s glaring. His mouth moves, his voice booming, but I can’t make sense of the words.
I throw up my hands. Stammer an apology. Start to back away.
“Stop.”
Just one word, spoken in English, humming with fury.
“Who are you?”
I open my mouth, but only a squeak comes out.
He strides toward me, terrifying in his deliberate calm. His thick, white brows furrow low, casting his small, dark eyes into shadow as they rake over me, head to toe and back again, like he’s memorizing every inch.
Then he stops, leaning in. His gaze locks onto mine. “Such blue.”
