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her lips - ”Iain Lom MacDonald! He
 
loved
 
you. Wrote all

kinds of poems and songs about you.”

MacColla's scowl turned into a beet red blush. He opened his mouth to speak, but she stopped him. “No, just a minute, I'm not done. He had a nickname. Now
 
that
wouldn't be public knowledge, would it? The Stuttering  MacDonald, maybe? Bald Iain? Well, he stuttered and he was bald, and had some sort of nickname along those lines. I just can't… ”

She raised her hand, seeing what looked like growing impatience on his face. “Wait,” she pleaded. If she could only think of that nickname, surely it would be some sort of proof of
 
something
.

What was the poet's nickname? Nickname
…

“Ah!” It came out as a yelp, her eyes widened. “I've got it:

Your father!” Haley leaned in, animated.

“Your father had a nickname.
 
Colkitto.
 
It was because he

was left- handed. Those close to him called him Colkitto.”

He nodded silently, his eyes squinting. Whether it was from bafflement or suspicion, she couldn't tell.

“You see, in my time, for a while  people… well
 
historians
 
mistakenly called
 
you
 
Colkitto. They thought
 
you
 
were the  left-handed one. People argued about it. But it's not your  nickname, is it? Your father Coll was…
 
is
 
known to his  closest friends as Colkitto.”

She inhaled deeply, smiling in triumph.

But not MacColla. His somber face chilled her and stole the

curve from her lips.

He rose. And though he offered his hand to help Haley up, his voice was gruff when he said, “We must go. I'm expected in Kintyre. My family waits for me even now. ”

“Fret not,
 
leannan.
”

MacColla began to walk, adding. “You'll soon be able to ask the man for himself.”

Chapter Nineteen

Could he believe her? They'd stopped for a brief rest, and

MacColla sat, watching Haley.

The lass was in her own world, studying his sword as if it could unlock the key to the universe. She'd leapt for it the moment he pulled it from his black leather scabbard to sit.

Would he believe her fantastical story, or decide simply that she was the loveliest madwoman he'd ever met? Her

crazy talk of traveling through time had confounded him.

And yet…

“Would you call this a Gallowglass sword?” she asked.

“
Leannan
, you do have the most peculiar questions.” He  untied a small leather bladder from his belt and took a

deep pull of water.

He   wiped his mouth on his sleeve, amused and disconcerted both. “So you speak the Irish too?
 
Gallóglaigh.
 
Foreign soliders,” he mused. “I've not heard that word in some time. Aye, it's got the look of an Irish sword like those the
 
Gallóglaigh
 
fought with long ago.”

He watched her return her attentions to the blade. She ran

her palm along the base of it. It was a simple design, with  V-shaped lines that echoed its sharp edges. Haley slowly  stroked her hand along the flat of it dipping her fingertip in  and out of the etched steel.

Hunger clutched hard and fast at MacColla's chest. He felt it smolder in his eyes and drive straight to his loins, making him rigid with want.

“How is it you make a man weak with a mere touch to his  blade?” He tried to muster a smile, but could only stare,  the pure craving of her pushing out all other thought.

“Claidheamh da lailum,”
 
he rasped. “That's what that sword

is called.”

“Kla… hi… dah… life.” she pronounced slowly. “Two-hand

sword.”

Feeling his eyes on her, Haley glanced up , and the intensity of his gaze overpowered her. His eyes pierced her.  Incinerated her.

What did MacColla think of her? Did he believe her or

think her insane?

She looked away quickly. Strangely nervous, she returned her attention to the weapon, searching for some clue to the heart of the man.

She smoothed her fingers along the guard, an unadorned span of steel in the shape of a 7, directly over the hilt, meant to protect the bearer's hand. Thin nicks in the metal scratched her thumb, and she contemplate d those strikes from other swords that had not found his flesh. She

realized she was grateful.

Her finger traced down the leather grip. It was a ring-hilt, with a plain circle at the base of the pommel. Either an  Irish-made sword, or with a nod to one.

She fisted her hand tight around it. The leather was smooth, from sweat and blood and use.

Haley lifted. The tip remained on the ground, but still she felt the sword's heft. It would be only seven, perhaps eight pounds. Not too much heavier than the five -pound weights she'd sometimes worked with at the gym.

She lifted the blade from the dirt. It was difficult. Eight pounds might not be much, but stretch it into a six-foot-long sword and it was a different story. She let the tip fall to the ground.

“Your early biographers wrote that you could behead four

men with a single swing.”

“Ha!” He gave a resounding laugh, and the sound of it was

a balm to her nerves. “Is that so?”

She shrugged innocently, a smile on her face now, and he scooted next to her to clap his arm about her shoulder and tuck her in close.

“Well, I suppose if the men were all of a height,” he  speculated for a moment, sounding highly amused. “And if  they all stood very still for me, back to stomach. Then, aye,  I could do it.”

In that moment, a wave of affection for him swept her. His suddenly high spirits were irresistible. And his accent melted her. His words had come out as “verrra still,” the thick brogue tripping his tongue.

She wrapped her own arm around his back, leaned close and found herself inhaling quickly for a renegade hit of his scent. Musk and man. Closing her eyes, she shook her head at her animal response. An explosion of warmth in her belly, her body suddenly expectant, all her muscles tensed, piqued, and on alert.

Did his  laughter mean he believed her? Could he believe she was from another time? She hoped desperately he did.

“We can't tarry long,
 
leannan
.”

She sighed. Her body ached from walking. From not sleeping. Not eating. She'd been taken in the night and her feet we re still bare, scratched and sore.

Reading her thoughts, he said, “I see your weariness, and  I'm sorry for it. But there's nothing to be done. We're still on Campbell land. Though some of his people rally quietly against him, we've no way to tell friend from foe.”

He tangled his hand in her hair, pulled her close to kiss thetop of her head. “We need to keep walking. Find horses and be away from here.”

“How will we find horses?” She gestured to the grand  wilderness around them. They'd traveled steadily south, as  much as possible taking cover in the wooded tangles that

shadowed Loch Awe. She didn't imagine they'd be running  into a stable anytime soon. “We're out in the middle of  nowhere.”

“Don't fash your bonny head over it.” He pulled her in for  one last, rough hug to his side. “I've spent the better part of the season raiding this very land. I expect I'll be able to  root out a pony for that sweet bottom of yours.” He slid his  fingers down to give her a pinch.

She made a little chirp of surprise. MacColla's grin was guileless and, Haley thought, if she didn't know better, she'd think he was quite pleased with himself.

He looked at her, his features softening, brown eyes warm as they roved over her face, taking her in.

“One more thing,
 
leannan
.”

The naked affection she saw in those eyes startled her.  Thrilled her. Scared her. “Yes?” Her voice came out breathy and slight.

“I believe you.” He stroked her cheek. “I don't understand

your story, but I believe it.”

Tears sprang to her eyes. “Really?” Something deep in her core unspooled. She hadn't fully realized just how terrified she'd been. Terrified that he wouldn't believe her. Terrified

she'd be left on her own.

But most of all, Haley had been terrified she'd misunderstood why she was sent back. Because she knew

the reason now. She'd been sent back in time to him.
 
For

him.

“It's you,” she managed. “You're why I'm here.”

“Aye.” Emotion tore his voice to gravel. “And I'm the reason

you'll stay.”

Stay.
 
Could she? What of her family? Her life? To stay

would be to forsake her old world forever.

She roved her eyes over MacColla's face. His mouth, full, with lips slightly parted, ready to take her, taste her. His eyes, in which she'd witnessed such ferocity, now vulnerable, naked with affection, only for her.

Yes
, she thought.
 
Maybe. Stay.

For awhile.

He kissed her then, soft and slow, and it was the tightest thing she'd ever known.

* * *

“Can we swim?” Their destination was the Mull of Kintyre,  and though all she knew of the place was sung by Paul  McCartney and Wings, Haley was beside herself, excited to  see what he claimed was a modest home in a glen by the

sea.

“You're a swimmer then too?” He shook his head. “Och,  you're sure to impress my father now.” He raised his brows

in mock gravity. “You'd be wise, however, not to call the

man
 
Colkitto
.”

Laughing, she asked again, “Well, can we?”

“Swim? Aye, you can splash about. But I dare say you'll  prefer a tub of hot water to the sea. 'Tis decidedly warmer.”

Oh God, a bath.
 
Her body thrilled with it, every cell shrieking to attention. Suddenly her scalp, her back, her legs, all the parts that had been itching like mad flared into a raging prickly need for a thorough scrubbing.

“Oh.” She shuddered with anticipation. “A real bath? Will

we be there tonight?”

“Leannan”
 
- he laughed and tousled her hair as if bemused  by her silliness  - “tonight? No indeed. It will take us days to  get there. I'd say it's a full twenty leagues from where we  stand. Or more. And there's still the matter of finding us  horses.”

He  blew out an exhale, looking longingly at the distant lake, now only a glittering patchwork through the trees. “A boat is what we really need.” MacColla turned to her. He tried to mask a smile. She saw the devil in his eye and chose to ignore it. “Kintyre is almost an island, aye? A long bit of land hanging from the mainland like a, well… ”

“Like a… ?”

“Like a… long, thin… appendage dangling from the coast.”

She rolled her eyes. She'd been one sister among five brothers; she caught the joke. “Okay MacColla. I get it. It looks like a… ”

“Peninsula,” he quickly added. “It looks like… aye, it is a

peninsula.”

“Mmm-hm.” Nodding her head, she bit back a grin.

“Ah.” he interjected, wisely changing the subject, “I do have

a story about this strapping peninsula.”

She shot him a look.

“'Twill shorten our walk,” he assured her.

When she didn't protest, he began, “Kintyre didn't always belong to Scotland.” He nodded solemnly, settling into his story. “Over five hundred years ago there lived a great  Viking warrior.”

He paused to take her elbow, helping her over a fallen log then went on, “There'd been great fighting over who'd control the west of Scotland.”