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think ye no savage. Er,
actually, I’m a Highlander, my lady. I’m called a savage all the
time. Besides, just lookin’ at the two of us, and anyone would
point to me as the brute. What with yer delicate...lovely—shite.”
He winced, perhaps from complimenting her, or maybe from swearing.
Fleur thought it was the latter.
    He was adorable when he was flustered like
that.
    “There are many tribes from Virginia, but my
people are not from there,” she said calmly. “I’m from the plains
of America. However, I’ve been to Virginia. It’s a very beautiful
state, er, colony. I wouldn’t mind telling your mother that, for my
role as an ambassador and all.”
    A lopsided grin sneaked on his face again. He
took a sip of a breath. “Is it? Do ye ken my brothers are
safe?”
    Although not at all an historian herself, she
vaguely knew many of the tribe’s history of the South, mainly for
her own continuing DNA research of original American people. She
knew that from the instant the Europeans, especially indentured
servants, met Native Americans, many tribes had taken them in as
their own. Granted, several settlers would tell horror stories of
tribes terrorizing the colonizers, but the truth was never as clear
as fiction, was it? Then she remembered Ian telling her something
about some of the Southern tribes having a special fondness for
Highlanders. The two peoples assimilated, but neither one giving up
their culture. They learned to speak Scottish Gaelic and Algonquin,
wore plaids and doe-skinned leggings, embracing the long sword in
battle as well as the traditional flint arrows.
    She nodded. “I do. I think your brothers are
safe.”
    His broad shoulders released a few inches
down, as if she had unburdened him from an immense load.
    “Why are your brothers in Virginia?”
    His shoulders hunched all over again. His
face soured for an instant, then he turned from her, clicking his
tongue and the horse began walking. She didn’t think he would
answer, but finally he said roughly, “Long story.”
    “Maybe you’ll tell me about it...later?”
    He shrugged.
    “You never told me what you said to that Rory
guy.”
    There was no mistaking that every time she
called Rory, that Rory guy, Duncan softly chortled. She really
liked that, making Duncan laugh.
    “I told him about yer missing things,” he
said. “That more than likely some mosstroopers stole from ye, and
I’m wantin’ my ma to see ye to make sure ye weren’t hurt.”
    “Wait, you think I’m hurt?”
    He pivoted his head again. “Ye said ye don’t
ken where ye are. I’m assuming someone hit ye over yer head. Once
we get that sorted, then we can find out why ye’re really
here.”
    She squeezed her legs and pulled on the
horse’s mane, effectively making him stop, even if she didn’t have
the reins. Duncan halted and looked up, a frown of irritation sent
at the mount.
    “I didn’t get hit on the head.”
    “Mayhap they hit ye without yer awares. It
can happen.”
    “I didn’t get hit on the head. Feel for
yourself.”
    He swallowed.
    She pulled her ponytail holder out, letting
her hair go wild and wrap around his face as she leaned down toward
him again. “Feel my head. I don’t have a bump, not even a bruise.
I’d have a headache if I’d been hit, and I don’t. I feel fine. I
feel...great in fact.”
    His shoulders hiked a little more, and his
eyes stayed fixed on her hair waving around from the sea
breeze.
    She leaned as close as she dared, holding
tight with her inner thighs to the horse. Duncan’s face was only a
couple inches from hers.
    He cleared his throat. “Then—then why is it
ye don’t ken where ye are?”
    “I know where I am. I just didn’t know when .”
    He started to shake his head slowly.
    She didn’t know why, but she had to have him
believe her. Although it was utterly insane. If he believed her,
then maybe she wouldn’t feel so alone.
    His gaze drifted from her eyes down to her
lips where it stayed for a few