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Chapter Two

Emeline gradually awoke, becoming aware she lay on her side atop an unyielding surface. A nagging sense that something was horribly wrong prodded her awake. Simultaneously, another part of her insisted she surrender to sleep’s blessed forgetfulness once more.

Feeling as if bricks weighted her eyelids, she edged them open. God save her, the effort was almost too much.

Across the room from where she lay, a fire burned low in a soot-stained stone hearth. Its failing glow cast weird shadows upon the equally bucolic walls. Eyebrows pinched in confusion, she raised her gaze a fraction. A rough-hewn ceiling met her bleary inspection.

What was this place?

Wherewas this place?

The last thing she recalled was sitting astride a massive gray-toned horse amidst a fierce storm.

Or had she dreamed that?

Disoriented and her forehead furrowed, she skimmed her palm over the rough blanket covering her on the narrow bed built into the cottage’s wall. A series of memories came crashing back, encapsulating her in a tidal wave of anguish.

A bearded tartan-clad Highlander chargin’ across the road, dirk in hand.

A flash flood bearin’ down upon us.

Clingin’ to a broad, muscular back.

The two men wantin’ to kill me.

Aunt Jeneva! Och, God. God. Aunt Jeneva is dead. Dead!

Eyes pooling with scorching tears, she gulped in a great rush of air. Fear and sorrow speared her, eviscerating her with pain equal to being cleaved in half. She jerked upright, cracking the top of her head on another shelf-like bed directly above hers.

Ouch!

Soft snores echoed nearby and, blinking away her tears while rubbing her sore head, she stared hard at the wooden slats, mere inches from her face.

Was he up there?

The man with the ridiculously muscled back and chest? And the wild untamed silver-streaked mane of raven hair and equally wild beard? The brave Scot who’d risked his life to save her?

What was his name?

She put two fingers between her eyes and gently pressed.

Liam. Liam MacKay.

And according to her dear friend, Berget Jonston, not just a Scot but the Baron of Penderhaven. Although, truth to tell, the fierce man who rescued her resembled an uncivilized warrior rather than a feudal baron and laird of an extensive estate.

She licked parched lips.

God, she was thirsty.

Holding her breath, she flung back the blankets. She swung her legs over the edge of the cot and paused for a moment, waiting for the sickening dizziness causing her head to spin like a child’s toy top to subside. After she inhaled a few deep breaths, the swirling ceased, and she further examined the humble cottage’s interior in the muted light.

It might well be a rustic hunting lodge. No, lodge was far too generous a description. Cramped cabin, better described the simple rectangular, single-room building. Everything about its interior heralded masculinity, from the barren walls to the crude, no-nonsense furnishings. The adjacent wall boasted another pair of bunks.

Ah, there in the lower bunk, his immense size dwarfing the small area, slumbered her savior.

One elbow slung across his face, he lay on his back. A gray-brown coarse woolen blanket like hers covered his torso. His sculpted chest, deliciously sprinkled with curly midnight hair, lay bare for her inspection.

She unashamedly looked her fill.