Free Timeless by Teresa Reasor Page B

experiences.”
    Regan’s dark brows rose in inquiry.
    “Pure, stubborn, pigheadedness.”
    Regan laughed. “I can see that in you. It’s written in your features, your cheekbones, your jaw, and the way you get that V of concentration between your brows. I can almost picture you with a claymore in your hand.”
    The way she looked at him, studied his face with such intent interest, had a response running straight to his groin. For a moment he had a vision of her naked, her skin like warm, creamy satin against his. Just as it had been in his dreams. He drew a deep breath and dragged his attention back to their conversation.
    “When you live in a place that your family has known for hundreds of years, lass—When you hear the stories passed down from your parents and your grandparents, you know what kind of stock you come from.”
    “I envy you that, because it’s something I’ll never have.”
    “America is not so young that your kin dinna have stories. What about the Boston tea party and your past troubles with Indian tribes on the way west?”
    “My parents and their parents are English. They have stories about where they come from. But I don’t. I was adopted.”
    A quick twinge of sympathy brought his gaze to her face. There was something comforting in knowing who his ancestors were. They tied him to the past and remained a part of his future through what he had inherited from them. It had to be difficult not knowing from whom or where she came. “So you look for who the rest of us are, so you’ll know who you are as well.”
    Regan was silent a moment, her black brows drawn together in a frown. “I’d never thought about it in quite that way, but I suppose so.”
    Her attention shifted to the porthole where Mt. Slioch was visible. It was the stillest he had ever seen her. He read an interest in the mountain as she focused on it.
    “I love this place. I would never grow tired of looking at the mountain or the loch.” Her gaze swung back to his face. “I feel at home here.”
    Quinn studied the plains of her high cheekbones and the wing-like tilt of her brow. He clenched his hand to keep from touching her. “Then maybe you are, lass.”
    He forced his attention back to Noggie and drew the mic toward him. “Rob, check the ROV camera, we’re getting nothin’ but snow in here.” Lord, he wished.
    “Aye, Boss.”
     
    *****
    The high-pitched sound of a fiddle and the smell of grilling meat greeted Regan as she pushed open the pub door. She stepped into the dim interior and paused at the entrance to allow her eyes to adjust. Hannah MacKay, the only Scottish Archaeology student on the team, stood and motioned to her. Her round glasses reflected the dull gleam of the candle flames dancing in glass chimneys on each table.
    Regan wove her way through the crowd. Rick drew in his long legs so she wouldn’t have to step over them to get to the chair at his right.
    Stephen Berthold rose and pulled out her seat. “Where are the others?”
    “They’ll be along in about five minutes. Sheary and Helen were still primping when I left. Henry was waiting to drive them up.”
    He nodded and took his seat.
    She looked around the pub packed with locals. Catching Hannah’s eye, she leaned forward to speak with her. “I’m not a drinker, Hannah, what should I order?”
    “You could order a ginger beer. ‘Twill look as though you’re drinkin’ though you’re not.”
    Regan shot her a grateful smile.
    “What’s the word on the skull?” Hannah asked.
    “The analysis lab took possession of it from the coroner. It was obvious that it wasn’t contemporary. They’ll be dating it. It was theorized that when the cofferdams panels were sunk they bubbled up the debris that was covering the skull. A team will be going down tomorrow to see what else might be there. It’s probably been buried for some time. Was there any progress on the carvings on the stones today?”
    A sharp glitter of interest had overpowered the