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

meal, such as it is.”
    “You do that,” Hunter muttered and busied himself collecting stones to ring the fire pit the squires had prepared before they joined the men who were hunting. “Mayhap the others will be successful, and we’ll sup on fresh meat this eve.” Conscious of Meghan’s eyes upon him, he felt overly large and as awkward as a young page under her scrutiny. What was she feeling right now? What did she think of him? Mayhap ’twas his inability to read her that drew him to her so incessantly. Aye, that must be it.
    By the time he had a fire going, Murray, Cecil and Gregory returned, bearing a few fat geese they’d already gutted and plucked. The squires followed, carrying a brace of coneys.
    “The saints be praised!” Tieren exclaimed. “We shall feast this eve.”
    The pages, Tristan and Allain, took the catch from the men and made quick work of adding what seasonings they carried, spitting the fowl on green wood, and placing them atop the two branches set into the ground on either side of the fire. George and John worked at dressing the coneys. Once the geese were done, they’d spit the hares and roast them to break their fast on the morrow. The two lads tended to the roasting geese, and the rest of the party gathered to sit near the welcoming warmth of the fire.
    “Tell us the tale, Hunter,” Tieren said, helping Meghan to sit between them.
    He sighed. “You dinna wish to wait until our bellies are full?”
    “Nay.” Cecil laid down a bit of sheepskin and settled himself upon it. “I would hear it now, if you please.”
    “All right.” Exhaustion made it far more difficult for him to close himself off from his companions’ reactions to the day’s mysteries. Curiosity, wariness and fear wafted over him. For certes he wished for a reprieve. He needed solitude, a full belly and a good night’s rest. “Gregory, keep watch but stand near enough to hear.”
    “Aye.” He called to his squire to take up the watch on the opposite side of camp.
    Hunter stared into the flames and wondered how much to reveal. If he kept to the tale and said naught of his ties to the fae, mayhap he wouldn’t be forced to lie. “I rode into the fair and began searching for Nevan and the lads. When I came to the green-and-white-striped tent, an old Romany woman stepped out. I thought she might have knowledge of Nevan, so when she bid me enter her tent, I did so. We conversed a bit, and she gave me tea. She asked that I do her a favor, and I felt ’twas my knightly duty to comply.”
    From there, he related events exactly as they happened, leaving nothing out. “I snatched Meghan and brought her here, believing I was rescuing her from certain death. I was unaware that I’d been sent through time to do so. The two of us discovered the truth as we spoke.” He met the eyes of each of the men and lads sitting around the fire. “She is come to us from the distant future. The rest you ken, for we rode straight here upon finding the fair gone.”
    “Impossible!” Cecil leaped to his feet. An overpowering determination to deny what he kent was the truth flowed from him. “This canna be.”
    “It’s true.” Meghan’s chin lifted. “I’m from the twenty-first century. My father and I were putting on a sword fighting demonstration at a Renaissance festival when Hunter appeared and snatched me away. It’s what we do. My family teaches sword fighting and other skills from your era.” She gestured to their surroundings. “Hunter snatched me from what he thought was a fight to the death, and here I am.”
    “You saw the proof for yourself when you went to see if the fair had indeed disappeared. Why do you doubt me now?” Hunter sent Cecil a look sharp enough to split wood. “What would I gain from making up such an outrageous tale?”
    “ ’Tis sorcery.” Cecil paced.
    “Aye, for certes, but no’ of our doing. Surely you see that,” Hunter offered in a placating tone. Cecil’s mounting panic and fear