“What is it with you Scots?” she muttered, looking up at him. “You’re always undressing.”

“Better us than you,” he said, reaching around her and taking the man’s plaid. “Here, why don’t you step into the woods and put this on? Then we can go to the village.”

Catherine leaned to the side to peek around him. “Ah… where’s the other guy?” she whispered, taking the plaid—which smelled like a dead horse—and holding it away from herself.

“He decided he wanted to walk home,” Robbie said, nudging her toward the woods.

Without looking back, for fear of seeing the naked Scot, she marched to the trees, still holding the plaid away from herself.

She didn’t realize Robbie was following her until she turned to duck behind a dense bush. “What are you doing? I can change without your help.”

He started unwrapping his own plaid. “I prefer you wear mine.”

Catherine spun away with a groan of frustration. “So, that’s Ian’s son?” she asked, willing her cheeks to cool while she listened to Robbie undress. “And he’s really their leader?”

“Aye. And he’s called a laird,” he said, setting his much nicer-smelling plaid over her shoulder and taking the stinky one out of her hand. “They heard the storm last night and were scouting the area to make sure a fire hadn’t started from a lightning strike. Poor Niall looked as if he was seeing a ghost once he recognized Ian.”

“They believed Ian’s story, that he’s been in England for… for… ” She glanced over her shoulder, only to find herself staring at Robbie’s wonderfully masculine body as he wrapped the smelly plaid around himself. Darn it! What was her question?

Oh, yeah. “How long has Ian been gone? Thirty-five years?”

“Nay. We’ve come back only ten years after Ian left.”

“But he’s eighty-five years old.”

“He has the health of a sixty-year-old of this time.”

Catherine forced herself to tear her gaze away and step behind the thick bush. “Gwyneth will know the difference,” she said, undoing her MacBain plaid and tossing it over a branch.

“You think so?”

“But maybe she’ll be so glad to have him back she won’t care,” Catherine speculated.

“Why did that guy grab me? Because I was wearing the wrong colors?”

“Nay. He didn’t see your plaid, only a young, beautiful, unprotected woman.”

Catherine paled to the roots of her tangled hair. “He would have… he wanted to… ”

“Nay. He wouldn’t have harmed you. He was only thinking he’d found himself a wife.”

“A wife!”

“I warned you that women have little say here. And an unprotected lass is fair game.

Hell,” he said, waving his hand with his back to her. “Stealing wives, especially from other clans, is more of a sport than warring is.”

Catherine stopped trying to figure out how to wrap the plaid as Ian had shown her and stared at Robbie. “You’re kidding, right? Men don’t actuallysteal their wives.”

“Ian stole Gwyneth from the Macleries.”

“And the Macleries didn’t come after her?”

“Now, why would they want to do that? It’s a matter of pride when a daughter is chosen by a MacKeage warrior. The MacKeages are a powerful clan.”

“Does anyoneask the woman if she wants to get married?” Catherine muttered, trying again to adjust the plaid. “Darn it, I can’t get this right.”

Robbie stepped around the bush and took the end of the cloth from her, unwrapped it two wraps, settled it over her shoulders, and tucked it into her cleavage. He smiled when she gasped and took her in his arms and kissed her firmly on the mouth.

Catherine clung to him. She might not be ready to make love to the man, but kissing him back was definitely okay—since this was only a dream. So she surrendered to the need she’d bottled up inside her for so long, canted her head, and grabbed his hair, deepening the contact.

He lifted her off her feet with a satisfied groan and swept his tongue inside her mouth.

She had a wonderful time exploring his taste while reveling in the feel of his powerful arms wrapped around her. His hand on her backside felt quite pleasant, too. And his noble intentions pushing into her belly compelled her to lift her knees and wrap her legs around his waist until she was nestled intimately against him.

He broke the kiss the moment she did that and looked down at her so fiercely that Catherine stopped breathing.

“You come alive at the most inopportune times,” he growled, letting her slide down his body until she was standing again. He shoved her head against his chest with a shuddering sigh and squeezed her tightly. “One of these times, I’m not going to care who’s around or what’s happening,” he continued over her head, his guttural voice rumbling under her cheek. “My noble intentions be damned.”

Catherine smiled into his chest. “I love it when a man talks romantic.”

He tilted her head back so she could look up at his scowl. “Every man has his limits, little Cat. And we’re about reaching mine.”

Her smile broadened. “Women have limits, too,” she said, reaching up and tapping the tip of his nose.

His arms tightened. “I’m having a hell of a time reading you, woman. One minute you’

re a wary mouse, and the next minute you’re all but exploding in my arms.”

She stuck out her lower lip. “Then maybe you should quit kissing me.”

“Like that’s going to happen,” he muttered, lowering his head and capturing her mouth.

“Catherine,” he said, once he was done kissing her again. “While we’re here, you only have to remember three things. That you carry your stick with you at all times and that you never go anywhere alone.”

“And the other thing?” she asked, kneading her fingers into his strong shoulders.

He kissed her once more, his mouth lingering possessively. “That you’re mine,” he whispered fiercely, setting her away and taking her hand to lead her back to camp.

Catherine was beginning to doubt her dream theory, wondering how she could know so much about medieval Scotland that she could picture it in such detail: such as the saddle she was sitting in for their ride down the mountain, with its crude buckles and uncomfortable wooden seat, and the swords and daggers and ancient gear of the warriors.

Come to think of it, she couldn’t remember ever having a dream that involved so many senses. The rabbit she’d eaten before they’d left camp had been delicious, roasted on a spit over a crackling fire. And the smell of the campfire had permeated her plaid. And the men! The three MacKeage warriors and the one who had accosted her in the woods smelled of pine and spruce and male sweat and horses.

Catherine couldn’t remember if she usually dreamed in black and white, but she was certainly seeing technicolor now—the bright red hair of some of the warriors, Robbie’s rich gray eyes, the warm purples and grays and greens in their plaids, and the sharp, vibrant blue of the sky slamming into the peak of the dark granite mountain.

Even sounds were vivid and eerily real, such as the rhythm of the horses’ hooves sliding over rock or muffled by moss and the low, guttural conversations among the men as they rode single file down the winding path.

Catherine found she liked the cadence of Gaelic speech. It sounded as if they were singing one minute but had a hairball caught in their throats the next. The rhythm was strong, rather musical in tempo, with forced and then whispered syllables punctuating each sentence.

They finally reached level ground, and Catherine stretched in her saddle to see Ian riding behind his son, one hand waving excitedly through the air as he talked nonstop.

She turned and looked behind her to see Robbie riding one of the other warriors’ horses.

The man who had stripped naked to give her his plaid had apparently decided to walk home with the man who’d grabbed her by the stream.

She pushed her stick back over her shoulder as she smiled at Robbie. He’d fashioned her a sling from a length of rawhide, so that she could carry it without smacking herself silly.