The Highlander's Folly (The Novels of Loch Moigh Book 3) by Barbara Longley Page B

his muddy hands on a patch of wet grass before swinging up on Doireann.
    “To tell the truth, I don’t know how long I’ll last.” She glanced at him. “I’m still adjusting to all the changes.” The constant dampness, the cold, traveling and the tension from the last few days had definitely taken a toll. “Seems like I’ve been tired ever since I got here.”
    “Why did you no’ tell me? You could have rested upon the wagon as we traveled.”
    She lifted her chin. “I can handle it.”
    He drew his mount up beside her. “You must give up this ridiculous notion that you possess a man’s strength and stamina.” He reached over and snatched her off her horse like she weighed nothing. Settling her in front of him with his arm around her waist, he called over his shoulder, “Allain, take her mount’s reins and lead him. You”—he gave her a shake—“rest.”
    Too tired to argue, she opted for the easiest retort. “You are so arrogant.”
    “Aye, but I’ve earned the right to be thus, and the sooner you accept that I am your superior in every way, the better we’ll get along. Sleep now, and hold your tongue whilst you’re at it.”
    “Superio r? ” Her eyes widened, and she straightened away from him. “Bring it, buddy. I demand a rematch. Anytime. Anywhere.” She twisted around to glare at him, stunned to find his eyes twinkling with amusement and one corner of his mouth twitching up. Her insides melted, and she studied him for several seconds before settling back against his chest. “You’re teasing me. Why would you do that?”
    “To divert your troubled thoughts.” His arm tightened around her waist.
    “Oh.” She nodded. “Sleep and hold my tongue at the same time, eh? I’ll give that a try.”
    “Do,” he commanded. Leaning close, he whispered, “You ken I was raised by a twenty-first-century lass and a twenty-first-century foster cousin, aye? Both have proven themselves a man’s equal in every way. You’ve been through much these past few days. Take your rest now, whilst I watch your back. ’Tis the MacKintosh way.”
    His breath against her neck and the way he held her sent shivers of pleasure coursing through her center. But the moment she stopped talking, the horror of what she’d done came flooding back. She preferred talking to the pictures in her head. “What happened to your last squire?”
    “Randolph caught his thigh upon a rusty scrap of iron whilst on the ship carrying us home. The wound festered, and he grew feverish. My squire perished at sea.”
    What was she doing in this place where life was so utterly fragile? She shuddered. “I’m sorry.”
    “As am I. He was a good lad and would’ve been knighted this summer. I dinna look forward to sending word to his kin. Randolph was a Sutherland. They’re close allies to the MacKintosh.” He gave her another slight shake. “Did I no’ just tell you to rest, Beag Curaidh?”
    “Yep. You did.” With another huge yawn, she snuggled against him. Despite how wet and cold they both were, a luxurious warmth spread where her back pressed against his chest. The contact and the heat lulled and soothed her. She felt protected, cherished. Sleep took her away from the damp chill, the never-ending mud and the day’s trauma. For right now, she was safe in Hunter’s arms.

    “Meghan.” Hunter’s deep voice penetrated her sleep. “We’re in Aberdeenshire. A meal and a bed await us within.”
    She yawned and straightened. They were on a cobbled street with charming stone cottages crowding either side and the North Sea sparkling to the east. Before her stood an impressive two-story inn built with a massive timber frame and some sort of material like the stucco familiar to her from the twenty-first century.
    Hunter slid off Doireann and reached up to help her dismount. She set her pride aside and placed her hands on his broad shoulders. He lifted her to the ground, and their bodies touched for an instant, setting off a host of