My throat closed. “Yeah,” I whispered.
“Away with ye now,” he sniffed, and wheeled his horse. “But be careful, aye? And dinna be too long. Moira’ll have my hide if ye miss supper.”
“Thank you, Mac.”
With a backwards wave, he moved off toward the opposite fence.
The horse responded to the barest pressure of my knees as she trotted down the long valley and out onto the magnificence of the Highland moor.
Ethel splashed through the narrow burn, which twisted and turned upon itself, growing deeper and faster the closer we got to the huge mountain range that bordered the uplands to the north. These were higher, misty and still snowcapped, even in June. Weaving through clumps of gorse and thistle with ease, the mare wended her way around the waist-high boulders that sprouted up like mushrooms.
When I loosened the reins, Ethel’s powerful muscles bunched and elongated under me. Strands of hair lashed my face as the wind whipped past. The roar of the river ahead pounded and my body began to relax, to move in rhythm with the horse’s gait.
A pitted boulder appeared before us. I jerked on the reins, but Ethel apparently had a different idea. She raced straight toward the rock. My mouth opened in a scream that turned to a shout of pure joy as we soared over it.
With the horse pounding beneath me, I felt alive. I felt free.
A glint of reflected sunlight caught my eye. I reined up, squinting across the brush at a figure on horseback that had emerged from behind a large clump of rock. He—pretty sure it was a he—held something to his face that winked in the weakening sun.
Binoculars? Is someone watching me?
When I clucked at Ethel and headed toward him, the man veered his horse and raced off in the opposite direction. Curious now, I nudged the mare into an easy canter. Ahead of us, the stranger galloped away. Every once in a while he glanced back, as if gauging the distance. He was looking behind him when they crested a steep hill. His horse—apparently not in the mood for a jump—planted its hoofs. The rider went flying over the animal’s head, disappearing from view as the now-riderless horse shied and galloped away.
“Oh. Crap,” I said, and kicked my heels hard into Ethel’s flanks.
I dismounted beside a steep riverbank. Below, the clear brown water dashed against the boulders, drowning out any other noise.
“Hey!” I yelled, but the guy had disappeared.
When I edged closer, the damp earth of an overhang crumbled beneath me. Arms pinwheeling, down the slope I went, crashing through mud and brush, before I fetched up—panting—at the pebbled edge of the surging river.
I saw him then, tangled in a patch of undergrowth at the water’s edge, like a piece of driftwood. He was sprawled face-up across a flat rock, clothes splattered with mud, laces of his brown hiking boots floating in the swift current. He wasn’t moving.
My jeans wicked up the frigid water as I splashed through the shallows toward him. His head lay cocked at an angle that hid his face. I couldn’t tell if he was even alive.
“Oh God oh God oh God.” A crimson ribbon of blood trickled from his dark hair to stain the mossy rock.
“Hey,” I called. “Hey, can you hear me? Are you okay?”
The stranger’s ripped shirt lay open beneath a crumpled camp jacket, revealing a terrible scrape across a tanned chest. His visible hand hung bruised and still, the long tapered fingers dangling in the water.
What if he’s dead? What do I do?
Dread dug sharp claws into my spine as I splashed to his side. His chest moved up and down.
Thank God.
I carefully shook his shoulder. “Hey! You all right? Wake up. Can you hear me?”
Nothing.
My mind raced as I tried to decide what to do. Stay with him so he doesn’t roll off and drown? Ride back to the house and call 911? Do they even have 911 here? Dammit, why didn’t I bring my phone?
An expensive-looking camera hung around his neck. The source of the glint I’d seen. The display screen had brightened to life when I shook him. When I saw the image it displayed, my mouth dropped open.
“What the hell?”
“Not bad, eh?” I nearly toppled over as he muttered in a voice creaky with pain. “Of course, it likely won’t win any prizes. But you have to admit, the composition’s quite lovely.”
I didn’t respond as I jerked the camera toward me and scrolled through the images. He was right. The light, the setup, the arrangement of each image highlighted the stark, breathless beauty of the Scottish Highlands. It wasn’t the background that freaked me out, though. It was the subject.
Every photo—more than a dozen—was a close-up of me.
My eye twitched. “Who are you? Why were you taking pictures of me?”
Dark, damp hair was plastered over his forehead, though with blood or water, I wasn’t sure. I could see now that he was around my age. Sixteen. Seventeen, maybe. He gave a little groan as he scraped the hair back and turned his face toward me.
Then, he opened his eyes.
Behind a fringe of black lashes, his left eye was a soft green, like sunlight on moss. The right, the brilliant blue of an October sky. As I stared down at him, the world warped around me.
The rush of water grew muted and distant. My nose and chest filled with the stench of . . . smoke? Yes. Wood smoke, tinged with a sickly sweetness of charred meat. Somewhere, a fire crackled and popped like bacon in a pan. Screams. The thump of hooves. A winey scent of overripe apples.
“Hello?” a voice called from far away. I clung to it like a lifeline.
The river’s gurgle returned, and I suddenly realized I was standing in the middle of a swift current, gaping down at a complete stranger.
“I know what you’re thinking, love.” The words came out husky, his accent more blue-blood than Highlander. “You’re wondering how someone so strong, so handsome, and so obviously endowed with athletic ability could’ve gotten himself thrown from a bloody horse.” He winced as he sat up and swung long jean-clad legs over the side of the rock. “The answer is quite simple, really.”
His camera still in my hand, I yanked on the strap. He groaned when it jerked his head forward. I tilted it to read the brass plate bolted to the side. PROPERTY OF BRAN CAMERON. IF FOUND, PLEASE RING . . . When I let go, the heavy camera struck against his chest with a satisfying thwack.
Edging a few steps back, I asked through stiff lips, “Why were you taking pictures of me, Bran Cameron?”
At first I thought he was ignoring me as he examined the blood smeared on his fingers. “Forgive me, won’t you? I’m, uh . . . feeling a bit off.”
With a moan, his head dropped into his hands.
“Crap,” I grumbled, torn between irritation and pity. “Are you okay?”
And what the hell do you do if he’s not, Walton?
Bran raised his head and gave me a wobbly grin. One of his canines was crooked. Oddly, it made me feel better, because the rest of him looked as if he’d been drafted by an architect. All clean lines and straight edges. He wasn’t beautiful, the nose a bit too long, the lips sculpted instead of full. Though his jawline was sharp enough to cut glass, it was his eyes I couldn’t look away from. Those peculiar, mismatched eyes.
“I know you.” The words tumbled out before I could stop them.