Gwen sighed and started to hand it to him, then unzipped the main pouch first, not in the mood to get into a discussion about zippers. Considering the one on her shorts—if he truly didn't know how they worked—she wasn't in a hurry to teach him. Women should sew padlocks on their zippers with him around.
He took the pack and dumped the contents on the ground. When her cell phone fell out, she was momentarily furious with herself for forgetting it, until she recalled that it wouldn't work in Scotland anyway. As he withdrew it from the jumble of her belongings, she realized it wouldn't work—ever again. The plastic casing had been crushed in one of her many falls, and it broke into pieces in his hands. He eyed the tiny technology inside with fascination.
He sorted through her cosmetics, pried open a compact, and regarded himself in the small mirror. Her protein bars were tossed aside along with the box of condoms (thank heavens), and when he spied her toothbrush, his bewildered gaze swept from her long, thick hair to the tiny brush and back to her hair again. One brow arched in an expression of doubt. He picked up the latest issue of Cosmopolitan, eyed the picture of the half-clad model on the cover, then fanned rapidly through it, gawking at the brilliantly colored pictures. He ran his fingers over the pages as if stunned. "And Silvan thinks his illuminated tomes are lovely," he muttered. When he started sorting through her brightly colored panties, she'd had enough. She dosed her fist over the lime silk thong he was currently examining and firmly shook her head.
But when he looked at her, she realized that for the first time since they'd met, seduction was not on his mind. Her desire to flee was abruptly vanquished by the look of anguish on his face, and she wasn't so certain anymore that he was playing with her. If he was, he was a consummate actor.
Plucking the magazine from his hands, she pointed out the date in the corner. His eyes widened even further. "What century did you think it was?" she asked, disgusted with herself for being a sucker for a gorgeous man. He evidenced no intellect, had no redeeming qualities, yet drew her like a fluttery moth to a flame, and so what if she made ashes of her wings?
"The sixteenth," he replied hollowly.
He sounded so distraught that she touched him, brushing her fingers against his chiseled jaw, lingering longer than was wise. "MacKeltar, you need help," she soothed. "And we'll find you help."
He closed his hand over hers, turned his head, and kissed her palm. "My thanks. I am pleased you come so swiftly to my aid."
She withdrew her hand quickly. "Come with me to the village, and I'll get you to a doctor. You probably fell and have a concussion," Gwen said, hoping it was true. The alternative was that he had been wandering around, God only knew how long, thinking he was some medieval lord, and she just couldn't reconcile the powerful, arrogant man with a delusional paranoid schizophrenic. She didn't want him to be sick. She wanted him to be just as he appeared to be: competent and strong and healthy. It seemed impossible that a mental case could be so… commanding, regal.
"Nay," he said softly, his gaze drifting to the date on the magazine again. "We go not to your village, but to Ban Drochaid," he said finally. "And we haven't much time. It will be a hard journey, but I will tend you gently when we arrive. I shall see you handsomely rewarded for your assistance."
Oh, God, he meant to take her to his castle. He really was over the top. "I'm not going to those stones with you," she said as calmly as she could under the circumstances. "Let me take you to a doctor. Trust me."
"Trust me," he said, as he pulled her to her feet beside him. "I need you, Gwen. I need your help."
"And I'm trying to give it to you—"
"But you doona understand."
"I know you're sick!"
He shook his dark head, and in the late-afternoon light his silver eyes were clear, level, and intelligent. No crazed glimmer lurked there, only concern and determination. "Nay. I am well and in no way touched as you are thinking. You will simply have to see for yourself."
"I'm not coming with you," she said firmly. "I have other things to do."
"You must forgo them. The Keltar takes precedence, and in time you will understand. Now, I ask you a last time, do you come with me of your own free will?"
"Not a chance in hell, barbarian."
When he wrapped his hand about her wrist, she realized that while they were arguing he'd removed a chain of sorts from somewhere on his body. When he closed the metal links about her wrist and bound her to him, she opened her mouth to scream, but he clamped a powerful hand over her mouth.