Free A Time for Everything by Ann Gimpel Page B

fifteen minutes, she thought she saw lights ahead and forced herself to hurry. She’d been considering digging through her small backpack for her iPhone—and holding herself back. As it was, it hadn’t liked the damp climate at all and had become increasingly cantankerous after she’d dropped it in a puddle the previous week. Even if I got it out, who the hell could I call to help me? Do they even have a 911 system here? Sam felt foolish. After all, being lost scarcely qualified as an emergency.
    “Where are your sheep, lad?” A deep voice from somewhere behind Sam startled her.
    She turned, seeking its source. “I’m not a lad,” she protested, gratitude sluicing through her that she wasn’t alone anymore.
    “But ye’re wearin’ breeks.” A tall figure moved out of the mist toward her. Dark hair splayed down the man’s shoulders halfway to his waist. Sharp green eyes gleamed in a strong-boned face. He wore some sort of kilt—except it was too long—with matching fabric wrapped around his torso. Knee-high leather boots were secured with laces. She wondered fleetingly why he wasn’t shivering.
    “Oh,” she breathed, understanding. “You must be one of those reenactors.”
    “Whatever that may be, I am nothing of the kind.” He sounded indignant. Moving practically nose-to-nose with her, he peered intently at her face. “Why, ye’re a woman fully grown.” He stepped back a pace, a shocked look on his face. “Whatever are ye doin’ out here by yourself, wearin’ men’s clothing when night is about to fall? Who are your folk, lass? Where be your village?”
    Great! If he’s not a reenactor then he must be nuts. She drew in an unsteady breath, unsure what to say. If he were truly mad, she didn’t want to antagonize him, not with them so far from anyone who could help her.
    “Have ye gone dumb, lass? I asked you a question. Several, in fact.”
    “Yes. I know. I was thinking—”
    “Ye need to think about who your folk are?” He stepped back another pace.
    It was her turn to look more closely at him. He sounded just as suspicious and rattled as she felt. “Well, you see…” she began nervously, glancing about for the lights she’d seen earlier. How far was the next village, anyway? And was it even the right one?
    He cleared his throat and tossed his mane of wet hair back over his shoulders. He was tall, well past six feet, with a chest so broad it made her feel small. Sam smiled inwardly. It was rare for her to feel feminine. At five-foot-eleven, she was scarcely a delicate creature. No size sixes for her. Not since she’d been about twelve, anyway.
    Before she realized she was staring and tore her gaze away, Sam let it wander up and down the stranger’s physique. He was quite attractive in an atavistic sort of way, even-featured with a dark shadow of stubble coating a well-formed jawline. And those eyes. They were a clear green, like fine agates, with flecks of gold near the pupils.
    “Shall we start with the simple things then, lass?” His voice had softened, as if he were talking to a simpleton or a child. “What is your name?”
    “Sam.”
    He snorted. “And what sort of name would that be for a lass?”
    “Ah, it’s really Siobhan. Is that better?” Sam fought down annoyance. She was getting wetter by the moment.
    He nodded fractionally. “Aye. Your folk? What is your clan name?”
    “Look,” she sputtered, “I don’t have a clan name. My last name is Macquire.”
    “’Tis Irish, ye are?” He sounded surprised, and then added half to himself, “I canna see her hair. The lass might speak true.”
    “The lass does speak true,” she muttered. “My hair is red, if that’s what you’re wondering. But what does that have to do with anything? I was headed for Inverness, by way of Beauly. I have lodging there.”
    “By yourself?” He sounded scandalized.
    “Yes, by myself.” Exasperation was getting the better of her. She made an effort to add a touch of