She blew the dirt from its surface. A man and a woman had been sketched with what looked like charcoal. Their features seemed like they'd been rendered quickly, loosely, picking up only the salient details. He was tall and broad, with wild hair and thick slashes of black for his brows. The woman was shorter, but not what you'd call small. She also had black hair, pulled back tight but for a hank loose over her brow. Haley tucked her own hair behind her ear.
She blew harder on the panel. There was something familiar about the woman. Squinting, Haley looked closer.
She cried out then, a single, sharp sound hitting the antiseptic walls. Her skin felt as if it was shrinking on her body, seizing her flesh into goose bumps all over, rousing the dust of thousands of hairs to stand erect.
The woman had a scar on her neck.
Haley's hand flew to her own scar, as if touching it would bring clarity to the image in her hands. Even though she knew it was empty, her eyes darted once again around the room. Was this supposed to be a picture of her? Was the man in the drawing some sort of stalker?
Haley had avoided touching the sketch for fear of smudging it, but she brushed it roughly now, trying to see it more clearly. Slivers of wood bit into her palm and she cursed, panic and anger and fear hammering through her.
Her head began to buzz, and she fought to stay focused.
She wouldn't let the shock and adrenalin drown her.
The scar. There was something on the woman's scar.
She tilted the panel. Light hit it at an angle, winking briefly along the mark on her neck. She inhaled sharply. The scar was the dull crimson of spilled blood.
A tinny squeal lanced her eardrums. She shook her head roughly. Stay focused.
Haley was mesmerized now, compelled to reach tentatively from her neck to the woman's. Gingerly, she touched it.
The cool of still-damp blood was tacky beneath her fingertip.
The air around her seemed suddenly thick, humid and dense in her lungs. She felt a tug. Fainting?
Falling.
The blackness swallowed her scream.
Chapter Four
MacColla eased his sister to the ground and placed a kiss on her forehead. He put his finger to his mouth, motioning for her to stay silent.
He needed to get her to safety immediately, but leaving Campbell's tower house was proving a more daunting challenge than entering. He nudged the wooden entry stairs with his foot. They lay perpendicular to the open doorway, having been pulled haphazardly up and into the building at day's end. Lowering them back down without the aid of another man would make a noise fit to wake the dead.
He glanced at the three souls passed out from drink on the far side of the great hall. Even a house full of drunken Campbells couldn't weather such a racket.
MacColla was leaning from the opening, assessing the long drop to the ground below, when he heard the crash. He spun to standing, dirk poised and ready in his hand, expecting to see a Campbell man.
Instead, a woman materialized before them, her white face ghostly in the darkness, dark gown fluttering at her legs as if a wraith in the night's breeze. Thick hanks of black hair hung loose around her face, blown gently along the sides of her cheek and full lips.
Their gazes held. Her eyes were gray in the ambient moonlight, transfixing him with the strange sensation that, if he only but focused a bit more, he could see forever in their depths.
The woman stumbled and he gave a start. Not an apparition.
She squatted to the ground, holding herself up on hands and feet like a wild creature. He stepped closer, straining for details in the shadows. The lass's dress stretched over her breasts and knees, baring a pale stretch of calf that
MacColla couldn't help but note.
Not an apparition at all, but a Campbell. He'd been ogling a bloody Campbell.
“God spare me,” he muttered, thinking he'd somehow bypassed a sleeping Campbell - one who'd managed to approach him unawares.
She slowly teetered to standing, and her dress continued to hug her body tightly. Though it exposed just a proper V of skin at her neck, it clung to modest swells at breasts and hips and thighs. Strange, low boots peeked from the hem, encasing her feet and lower legs in snug, black leather. His gaze raked back up her body, then stopped, snagged once more by those strange, luminous eyes. He finally found his voice, hoarse and low. “An e Caimbeulach a tha annad?”
He walked toward her. “Answer me, woman. You've Campbell blood in your veins? A sister, is it?” He leaned down and grabbed her chin roughly, turning her face from side to side. She had strong features. Thick lashes framed wide eyes and a lush mouth compensated for her almost- prominent nose. Prettier than he'd thought a Campbe ll would be.