of things.
He’d told her that he was sorry, but he had to leave because danger nipped at his heels. He couldn’t give her details because it might put her at risk. Lachlan had gone on to say he hoped they’d meet again and that she was pretty. On a separate line near the bottom, just above his signature, Lachlan Moncrieffe, Laird of Clan Moncrieffe, he’d told her not to trust strangers, and that he’d return if he could.
Maggie clutched the paper close. A tear snaked down one cheek. Why am I crying? I barely knew him. Her attempt to reason with herself was futile. In defiance of logic, a sad, slow tide washed through her and made her heart ache. She picked up her car keys, ready to head out and look for him, but forced herself to sit. In her heart of hearts, she knew she’d never be able to find him if he didn’t wish to be found.
Chapter Five
Lachlan had watched Maggie walk out the door. It took all his considerable self-discipline not to race after her, drag her back inside, and rip those ridiculous clothes off her. If ever there were a lass made for loving, it was her. For long moments, he visualized her without clothes. It wasn’t difficult since she’d scarcely been wearing any when he’d first laid eyes on her.
He shook his head, rose, and slid the deadbolt into place before making a transit of the room. He picked up books at random and paged through a few. They looked like scientific works with full-color depictions of bits and pieces of the human body. At first he marveled that someone had so fine a hand as to pen such drawings; closer inspection told him the illustrations couldn’t possibly have been hand drawn.
He blew out a heavy breath. Mankind had obviously come a long way in three hundred years, much further than they’d come in the previous three hundred. A stranger displaced from 1300 to 1600 would have noticed a few differences but nothing like this. He polished the rest of his food and carried their plates to the kitchen, setting them on a sideboard.
“No kitchen wenches,” he muttered. “Probably no more servants of any kind.” He pulled open cupboards and drawers, inspecting an array of pottery and cutlery. A few items had long, black tails attached to them. Some of the tails had been cunningly shoved into holes in the wall. He flicked a silver knob, and the item in front of him buzzed loudly. Lachlan started, returned the knob to its original position, and shook his head. What in the hell did I turn loose? He stared at tiny blades whirling in a circle at the base of a glass cylinder until they came to a stop. Try as he might, he couldn’t fathom a use for such a thing.
Careful not to move any other knobs or buttons, he settled in front of the cold box; it held an intriguing array of fruit and vegetables, cheese and meat. He tasted a few items, surprised that things he recognized—like blackberries—were so bland.
“What are we doing here?” Kheladin’s voice was annoyed, sharp, as he repeated a variant of his question from earlier.
“Waiting for the lass to return.”
“We canna risk remaining in one place for long until we determine if Rhukon yet lives.”
“We havena been here verra long. I wish to bathe. Then if the lass hasna returned, we can pick up this conversation.”
Something like a slow twisting in his midsection told Lachlan the dragon was restless and near to rebellion. “Bedding her was a good idea when we dinna have to wait. I doona have a good feeling about remaining here. In fact,” the dragon hesitated for emphasis, “I sense a trap.”
Have I grown so soft and unobservant? Lachlan sent his mage senses spinning outward and waited for information to flow back to him. He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Things feel…strange to me, mayhap because everything has changed. I do not sense Rhukon’s presence, though. Do ye?”
“Not exactly,” Kheladin admitted grudgingly. “But we canna be too
He’d told her that he was sorry, but he had to leave because danger nipped at his heels. He couldn’t give her details because it might put her at risk. Lachlan had gone on to say he hoped they’d meet again and that she was pretty. On a separate line near the bottom, just above his signature, Lachlan Moncrieffe, Laird of Clan Moncrieffe, he’d told her not to trust strangers, and that he’d return if he could.
Maggie clutched the paper close. A tear snaked down one cheek. Why am I crying? I barely knew him. Her attempt to reason with herself was futile. In defiance of logic, a sad, slow tide washed through her and made her heart ache. She picked up her car keys, ready to head out and look for him, but forced herself to sit. In her heart of hearts, she knew she’d never be able to find him if he didn’t wish to be found.
Chapter Five
Lachlan had watched Maggie walk out the door. It took all his considerable self-discipline not to race after her, drag her back inside, and rip those ridiculous clothes off her. If ever there were a lass made for loving, it was her. For long moments, he visualized her without clothes. It wasn’t difficult since she’d scarcely been wearing any when he’d first laid eyes on her.
He shook his head, rose, and slid the deadbolt into place before making a transit of the room. He picked up books at random and paged through a few. They looked like scientific works with full-color depictions of bits and pieces of the human body. At first he marveled that someone had so fine a hand as to pen such drawings; closer inspection told him the illustrations couldn’t possibly have been hand drawn.
He blew out a heavy breath. Mankind had obviously come a long way in three hundred years, much further than they’d come in the previous three hundred. A stranger displaced from 1300 to 1600 would have noticed a few differences but nothing like this. He polished the rest of his food and carried their plates to the kitchen, setting them on a sideboard.
“No kitchen wenches,” he muttered. “Probably no more servants of any kind.” He pulled open cupboards and drawers, inspecting an array of pottery and cutlery. A few items had long, black tails attached to them. Some of the tails had been cunningly shoved into holes in the wall. He flicked a silver knob, and the item in front of him buzzed loudly. Lachlan started, returned the knob to its original position, and shook his head. What in the hell did I turn loose? He stared at tiny blades whirling in a circle at the base of a glass cylinder until they came to a stop. Try as he might, he couldn’t fathom a use for such a thing.
Careful not to move any other knobs or buttons, he settled in front of the cold box; it held an intriguing array of fruit and vegetables, cheese and meat. He tasted a few items, surprised that things he recognized—like blackberries—were so bland.
“What are we doing here?” Kheladin’s voice was annoyed, sharp, as he repeated a variant of his question from earlier.
“Waiting for the lass to return.”
“We canna risk remaining in one place for long until we determine if Rhukon yet lives.”
“We havena been here verra long. I wish to bathe. Then if the lass hasna returned, we can pick up this conversation.”
Something like a slow twisting in his midsection told Lachlan the dragon was restless and near to rebellion. “Bedding her was a good idea when we dinna have to wait. I doona have a good feeling about remaining here. In fact,” the dragon hesitated for emphasis, “I sense a trap.”
Have I grown so soft and unobservant? Lachlan sent his mage senses spinning outward and waited for information to flow back to him. He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Things feel…strange to me, mayhap because everything has changed. I do not sense Rhukon’s presence, though. Do ye?”
“Not exactly,” Kheladin admitted grudgingly. “But we canna be too
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