Once Upon A Highland Legend Read Online Free Page B

she asked when he turned suddenly to face her.
    For an instant, he looked bemused by the sight of her, but quickly recovered and narrowed his gaze. “Burying my da,” he replied sourly. “Not that ’tis any o’ your bloody concern, wench. Where di’ ye come from?”
    Annie automatically turned to examine her surroundings, as perplexed by the question as he seemed to be by her presence.
    Bod an Deamhain was unmistakable in the distance. There it was. And she thought maybe she was halfway up Cairn Toul but couldn’t swear by it…everything was different.
    Once again she faced the half-naked Scotsman. His clothes weren’t all that tailored. In fact, he was only wearing a blanket—sort of. His legs were bare except for some crude strappy leather sandals that climbed his massive calves. And his chest was bare too, his bit of a blanket wrapped crudely about his waist, like some sad imitation of a great kilt.
    He took her measure in turn, examining her curiously from her ten-year-old utilitarian boots to her cousin’s skirt and poncho—obviously not much impressed with what he saw. Annie tried not to be offended by his sour expression. Okay, so the skirt might not look as hot on her as it did on Kate, but no one had ever looked at her quite like that —as though she were a mutated cell under a microscope.
    “If ye’re a spy for the crown,” he announced, “ye might as well hie yourself back to Scone! Ye ha’ no quarrel from my people, but we no longer ha’ any interest in aligning ourselves with the sons of MacAilpín.”
    Annie blinked. She understood just enough to know the man was a bit of a loon. A gorgeous loon, but a loon nonetheless. But hey, even gorgeous people went nuts. For an instant, she wondered if maybe he had escaped from nearby St. Vincent’s. As far as she knew the hospital dealt mostly with psychiatric patients. Bu—she turned to look around once more—they weren’t exactly within walking distance.
    “I was…uh…looking for my bag,” Annie said, her anger much deflated. “Have you seen it…by chance?”
     
    “Bag?”
    The lass nodded. “Blue. A dry sack. Sea to Summit. Probably overkill, but it’s the best I’ve ever had. I want it back.”
    Callum couldn’t be certain, but he thought she might be accusing him of stealing her purse. I dinna have your pouch—dry nor wet—an’ I ha’ no bloody idea what the hell you’re on aboot.” Callum tried not to look at her bare legs. All that saved her arse from hanging out for all the world to see was the mean cloak she had flung over her head. Save that he didn’t see any obvious tearing of the material, he thought mayhap her clothes must be rent and ruined. “What manner of clothing do ye wear, lass? Were ye beset upon by brigands?”
    The wind picked up, tossing her shiny black hair, lifting up the strange tartan with a hole for her head, revealing a tiny, but well-sewn skirt beneath the cloak that scarce covered her minge. “Not that it’s any of your bees wax,” she said. “But it’s my family’s plaid.”
    He scratched his head. “Ach, lass! I hate to tell ye, but there’s scarce enough for ye alone, much less your entire family.” If, in truth, it was her poor family’s tartan, they’d be spendin’ a mighty cauld winter. Callum felt a moment’s pity for the lass.
    She had the audacity to look at him as though he were the one who was daft—this woman who spoke of killing blue sacks from sea to summit. Her brows collided fiercely and her eyes crossed. She seemed unable to speak suddenly, and her mouth hung open as though she meant to say a thing, but couldn’t find the words.
    Callum placed a hand to his hip. “So ye would ha me believe ye were simply wanderin’ aboot, searching for some god-forsaken blue purse?”
    She found her tongue again, with about as much pluck as any woman he’d ever encountered. “Yes! It has my cell, and I want it back! Right now!”
    “Ye carry a cell in a purse? What manner of