Page 8 of A Rogue in Moonlight
He stepped down and extended a hand toward her. “Come up to me,” he said, fingers beckoning.
Fiona stared at the man who stood on the rocky slope. He seemed fierce, powerful, and wholly not of this earth. Tall and dark haired, in a kilt of muted dark tones with a brown wool jacket, he looked like a Highlander from long ago, as if he had stepped out of time. His legs were strong and muscled, swathed in thick stockings to flat knees. Chestnut brown hair sifted in waves to his shoulders, and the shadow of a dark beard dusted his jaw. His eyes, narrowed beneath a smudge of straight black brows, had a greenish hue. He glared at her, hand still extended.
“Come,” he said.
“Who are you?” she asked, heart pounding. She had heard stories of the Sidhe, an ancient fairy race of tall, magnificent beings. They sometimes appeared to humans, even stole them away. James’s wife Elspeth claimed that her grandfather and father had been taken by fairies. Elspeth was a charming storyteller, so Fiona did not entirely believe it.
But this handsome stranger appearing out of the mist made it seem very possible.
“Are you one of the Fey?” she asked in a hushed voice.
He beckoned again with long, nimble fingers. “Miss. Come up to me.”
She stepped back, her gaze on his—somehow she could not look away. Then she whirled to run, stumbling on the rocky slope. The Highlander was instantly there, taking her arm to draw her toward him in a strong grip.
“Come with me, Miss,” he said.
“No!” She pulled back. “You would steal me away!”
“What?” He looked down at her, like a giant on the steep angle. “Who the devil do you think I am?”
“One of the—er, Sidhe.” Then she realized how foolish it sounded.
He chuckled. “Not bluidy likely.”
A hot blush rose in her cheeks. The man was real, and she was an idiot. “What was I to think when you appeared out of the mist looking like a ghost, or a mythical being?”
“I would credit you with more sense. You seem a practical woman. Have you never seen a Highlander wearing the plaid, walking the hills?”
“Of course! But you could have given me a warning before startling me like that.”
“I beg your pardon.” He inclined his head, dark hair sliding over his brow. He seemed amused. “Truly, I did not mean to startle you.” He had the soft, elegant lilt of one who had spoken Gaelic before learning English. He released her arm.
Holding her bonnet tight against the wind, she stepped back. “I must go.”
“I am thinking you will come with me.” He reached out. She evaded him, snatching up her knapsack and hammer, and turned to run. Again he had her by the arm, his hold firm—and yet not threatening. It felt almost protective.
“My companions expect me. They are looking for me even now,” she insisted.
“Aye so? Where are they?” He turned with her and walked across the shoulder of the slope. Fiona tried to break free, but his grip was strong as he took her along.
“Let go!” Clutching the hammer in her free hand, she struck his forearm with the bruising thunk of iron smacking thick wool and taut muscle.
“A mhic Ifrinn!”Son of hell, she understood. “Give me that thing,”he barked, snatching the hammer. “I mean you no harm. I only want you gone from here for your wellbeing. These hills are not safe.”
“I was quite safe until you accosted me,” she pointed out, trying to keep pace with his long, purposeful stride. Where was he taking her? “You have no right to handle me so, or to order me out of here.”
“I do. This is my glen. I am Dougal MacGregor of Kinloch.”
“Are you laird of this glen?” Laird of Kinloch—Patrick had warned her about him.
“I am Kinloch, for the glen is deeded to me, aye. Tourists are not allowed here.”
“I am not a tourist, Mr. MacGregor. I am staying nearby.”
“The terrain is treacherous here. Visitors do not know the safe paths through the hills. And rogues and smugglers are often about, night and day.”
“Are you one of them?” She looked up at him. He had dropped her hammer into a pocket, but her bag held some hefty rocks that could serve as weapons.
