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    “What is it, lass? What have you found?” Hunter came up behind her.
    Forcing herself up off the ground, she brandished her sword in the air for him to see. Then she moved to retrieve the scabbard, sliding the blade inside the silver-tipped leather sheath. Keeping her back to the man responsible for this mess, she wiped her face with the linen sleeve of her shirt. “My sword,” she muttered. “I found my weapon here on the ground along with the scabbard—as if I’d left them here and not . . .” Her voice broke, and she took a few deep breaths to gain control. “And not a world and centuries away.”
    “I am sorry, lass. You canna imagine how very sorry I am.”
    “You were used, and I can’t fault you for trying to do the right thing. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”
    “Beat myself up? I dinna take your meaning.” He huffed out a breath. “Never mind. I can find no sign of Nevan or his lads. Let us depart. I dinna like the feel of this place.”
    “Sure. Let’s do that.” Grief turned to anger, and nothing steadied her nerves like rage. “We’ve been set up. You get that, right?”
    “Aye. I do indeed get that .”
    “I realize this is not entirely your fault, but I’m pissed, and I don’t want to talk to you . . . or even look at you right now.” She sniffed and brushed at her tear-streaked cheeks. “I need my space.”
    “I would like nothing more than to give you your space , but ’twould no’ be wise under the circumstances. Ride a short distance behind me, and I will endeavor to keep to myself.”
    “Why me?” she cried as she fumbled to get her scabbard buckled across her chest.
    “I dinna ken.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Madame Giselle said I was to restore balance and right a wrong of old.”
    “Restore balance?” She frowned. Had the faerie been referring to her father’s displacement? If that were the case, shouldn’t she have been sent to thirteenth-century Ireland instead of fifteenth-century Scotland? At least in Ireland she had family, and she looked enough like her father that her ancestors might believe her when she told them she was Connor’s daughter.
    “Aye. I canna begin to divine her purpose in having me take you as I did. My foster mother was sent here from the future to save my life, as Erin was brought here to save hers. Mayhap you are meant to do the same for some poor soul. Who can say?” He pointed to her feet. “Remove those spurs from your boots, lass.”
    “What?” She glared. “Why should I?”
    “Because only a knight may wear spurs, and ’tis unlikely our young King James has bestowed that honor upon you. We are about to ride into a group of true knights of the Scottish realm, and I doubt they will take it well to see a lass in spurs. ’Tis bad enough you’re dressed as a man.” He held out his hand. “I will return the spurs to you once we reach Moigh Hall. I swear upon my honor.”
    Though his words took a bite out of her pride, she couldn’t fault his reasoning. When in Rome and all that. She unfastened the silver spurs with their Celtic markings and handed them to him. “For your information, I earned these spurs the same way you did. Don’t lose them.”
    He made a disdainful grunting noise deep in his throat and put her spurs in the sporran he wore on his belt. He moved to the gelding’s side and once again cupped his hands to help her mount. “Come. Let us depart. My men await.”
    Heaving her own sigh of resignation, she climbed up on the horse and waited for Hunter to mount Doireann. “Lead the way. No more talking. I have a lot to process,” she grumbled. Nodding, he shot her a warm smile, his eyes filled with sympathy. The sight left her breathless and sent her heart racing. Damn those dimples!
    “As you wish, my lady.” He led the way toward the hills, and the ponies soon fell into step behind them, just as Hunter said they would.
    True to his word, he kept to himself. She chewed on her