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untie you.”
    She blew out a breath. “You can tie me back up once I take off my bra. Okay, Mr. Grey?”
    Who?
    But he didn’t ask. He studied her. Though she seemed sincere, he could not slough off the fact that she’d not been completely honest with him. He knew it to the core of his being. He could not take the chance of untying her, even for this.
    Even for the glory this might become.
    He shook his head. “Nae.”
    She growled—something ferocious that sounded like “fine”—and with great effort rolled away from him. He felt a hint of guilt then, at keeping her tied, making her so uncomfortable, but it was consumed by the fire of his passion that, now inflamed, would not recede.
    He lay back, closed his eyes and tried not to think of her taste, her scent, the curve of her breast.
    He tried not to dream of her.
    He failed.
     
    * * *
     
    Maggie woke up alone, but wrapped in a warm cocoon. It occurred to her that at some point, the highlander had woken up, untied her and left.
    She tried not to let disappointment ripple through her at the fact he hadn’t tried once more to remove her bra. Hell, that he hadn’t kissed her again.
    The kiss still danced in her mind. She swore she could still taste him.
    She sat up and glanced around the tent. She was gratified to see a flagon of water and something on a plate on the table. She extricated herself from the furs and padded over to see that it was. Her nose wrinkled. An oat cake. She picked it up and nibbled at the corner. It wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t orgasmic either. At the very least, it stopped the rumbling in her stomach.
    If she kept eating like this, she might lose Survivor kind of weight.
    She pushed her hair out of her face—without her brush she probably looked like a Chupacabra—and peered out the flap of the tent. Other than a few murmured conversations the camp was quiet, but she wasn’t a fool.
    The Macintosh would not have untied her unless he was certain she couldn’t run. She glanced at the woods and had a momentary urge to flee, but pushed it away with a sigh.
    Fact was, she didn’t want to leave him. Not really. After that kiss, she wanted only one thing.
    More.
    Whatever this was, this adventure—or hallucination—she owed it to herself to explore it. Her only regret was that she really wanted her locket back. It meant the world to her.
    She sighed and stepped out of the tent. A sudden movement at her side captured her attention and she glanced over as the large Viking-like man—the blond she’d smacked yesterday—leaped to his feet. He’d been sitting on a stool by the tent, whittling a stick down to a nub.
    She forced a smile. “Good morning,” she chirped.
    He frowned at her, clearly put out by her affability. But then, he offered a begrudging nod.
    “What are you doing?” she asked, gesturing to his stick.
    He held it up and touched the pointy end with a finger. “Spear.”
    Ah. It was charming the way he responded with one word answers so she could understand him, being a woman as she was. “I thought you forged steel tips for your spears.”
    He gaped at her. “I…aye. But I was bored. And curious.”
    “Curious about what?”
    “If this would be effective.”
    “No doubt it would be. It is very sharp.”
    “It is.” You’d think she’d complimented his sexual prowess, the way he grinned.
    “But short.”
    His glee deflated.
    “You’d have a hard time getting close enough to get a good bead on your prey.”
    “Bead?”
    “Good aim.”
    He studied the stick. “Aye. I think you’re right.”
    “But you could lash it to a longer stick.”
    “Aye.” He cast around for a longer stick.
    “You’re Ewan, aren’t you?” She thought she remembered his name, but she wasn’t sure. He nodded. “And how did you get guard duty, Ewan?” she asked in a teasing tone.
    A flush rose on his cheeks. He mumbled something.
    She tipped her head to the side and waited.
    “I doona have the best…bead.”
    She