Beyond the Highland Myst(343)

"Well, you stopped moving," Gwen argued. "I called for you. And ouch, dammit, now I hurt all over."

When he didn't respond, only raised his body slightly off hers so she could breathe, she became aware of a subtle change in him. His heart was thundering against her back, his breathing was shallow, and his hands were trembling atop hers.

"Wh-what's wrong?" she asked faintly. What horror could make such strong hands tremble?

He pointed to a car, disappearing down the winding road beneath them. "What in the name of all that is holy is that?"

Gwen squinted. "It looks like a VW but I can't tell from this distance. The sun's in my eyes."

"A what?"

"Volkswagen."

"A what wagon?"

"Volkswagen. A car." Was the man going deaf?

"And that?"

His cheek brushed her temple as she turned her head to gaze where he pointed. "What?" She blinked owlishly. He appeared to be pointing at the inn. "The inn?"

"Nay, that bright thing with colors such as I have never seen. And what of all those leafless trees? What has happened to the trees? And why have they tied cords between them? Think you they will run away if not tethered? Never have I seen oaks so shamed!"

Gwen eyed the neon sign above the inn and the telephone poles in wary silence.

"Well, lass?" He took several slow deep breaths, then said unsteadily, "None of this was here before. I have seen naught of such oddities. It looks as if half the clans in Scotland have settled about Brodie's loch, and I am quite certain he wouldn't approve of all this. He is a most private man." He rolled off her and flipped her over, then pulled her up so she was on her knees facing him. He cupped her shoulders and shook her. "What is a car? What purpose has it?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake—you know what a car is! Stop pretending. You've been pretty convincing as the archaic lord, but don't play any more games with me." Gwen glared at him, but beneath her anger he was frightening her. He had the most bewildered expression on his face, and she thought she glimpsed a hint of fear in his brilliant eyes.

"What is a car?" he repeated softly.

Gwen began to make a caustic comment, then hesitated. Perhaps he was sick. Perhaps this situation was infinitely more dangerous than she thought. "It's a machine powered by… er… battery and gas." She abruptly decided to humor him, giving him the short answer. "People travel in them."

Soundlessly, his lips formed the words battery and gas. He was very still a moment, then, "English?"

"Gwen," she corrected.

"Are you truly English?"

"No. I'm American."

"American. I see—well, not truly, but… Gwen?"

"What?" His questions were starting to scare her.

"In what century do I find myself?"

The breath locked in her throat. She massaged her temples, assailed by a sudden headache. It figured that a man who dripped such raw sex appeal had to be fatally flawed. She had no idea what to say to him. How did one answer such a question? Dare she get up and simply walk away, or would he tackle her again?

"I said, what century is it?" he repeated evenly.

"The twenty-first," she said, dosing her eyes. Was he playing a game? The bold block letters of a newspaper headline blossomed against the insides of her eyelids, crowding out all rational thought:

DROPOUT DAUGHTER OF WORLD-RENOWNED PHYSICISTS ABDUCTED BY ESCAPED MENTAL PATIENT. SUBTITLED: SHE SHOULD HAVE LISTENED TO HER PARENTS AND STAYED IN THE LAB.

He fell silent, and when she opened her eyes he was scanning the village below: the boats on the loch, the buildings, the cars, the bright lights and signs, the bicyclists in the streets. He cocked his head, listening to the blat of horns honking, the buzz of motorbikes, and, from some cafe, the rhythmic bass of rock and roll. He rubbed his jaw, his gaze wary. After some time he nodded, as if he'd resolved an internal debate he'd been having. "Christ," he half-whispered, aristocratic nostrils flaring like a cornered animal. "I haven't lost a mere moon. I've lost centuries."

A mere moon? Centuries? Gwen pinched her lower lip between her finger and thumb, riveted.

Then he looked back at her, eyed her shirt, her pack, her hair, her shorts, and finally her hiking boots. He tugged her foot out from beneath her, held it in his hands and studied it for a long moment before raising his eyes to hers again. His dark brows dipped.

"You name your stockings?"

"What?"

He ran his finger over the words Polo Sport stitched on the thick woolen cuff of her sock. Then his gaze fixed on the small tab on her hiking boots: Timberland. Before she could form a reply, he said, "Give me your pack."