Grey set the empty formula bottle on the ground and gently slung Baby onto his shoulder, pulling the edge of his jacket over him.

“Your experts are wrong this time.” He waved a hand at the forest. “This is my world. This is where I’m the expert. I can have us off this mountain and in front of a warm fire by morning.”

“That’s your male ego talking. And more than one group of crash victims have been found dead from such confidence.”

He came over and hunkered down in front of her. “Grace. I’m not boasting. If I thought our chances were better here, then we would stay put,” he told her, his tone solemn. “But I’m worried this storm will get worse before it gets better. And I want you and your child off this mountain tonight.”

“But you don’t even know where we are.”

“I will, once I get my bearings. I’ll have to leave you for maybe an hour, but then I’ll come back and take you out of here.”

“We shouldn’t separate.”

He reached out and touched her cheek. “Trust me, Grace. One hour. And then I’ll be back. I promise.”

* * *

And with that promise echoing through his head, Grey laboriously made his way through the steeply sloping deep snow of the forest, the avowed litany interspersed with curses.

How many more storms, more trials of terror, would he have to survive before he understood why he was here? What kind of power brings men eight hundred years forward in time and then places such obstacles in front of them to test their courage?

He wished he had his sword. His right hand felt naked, lost without the security of its weight. It was at home, though, in his room at Gu Bràth, uselessly out of reach.

He’d wanted it with him in Chicago this past week, just as badly as he wanted it now. The travel convention had been noisy, crowded, and oftentimes frightening. He had seen so many people, different-colored complexions, odd languages, and even odder clothing. Thousands—millions of people

—all massed together in the city of Chicago, living unimaginable lives. His business trip had been a trial unto itself, necessary to the success of their resort but unpleasant nonetheless. He had accomplished his goal of making TarStone Mountain Ski Resort known to the world of travel experts, but it had come at a price.

The airplane ride to Chicago had nearly undone him.

And the ride home had very nearly killed him.

Grey turned and started making his way back uphill, taking a more northerly direction. Slowly he relaxed, still not knowing where he was but feeling—sensing, really—that he was walking familiar ground. At least here in these mountains his life force was beginning to rebalance.

Grey snorted to himself. If that were even possible now. For four years he and his men had struggled to make sense of this journey they found themselves on, forced to make their way in this strange new land.

Learning to adapt in order not to perish.

The old priest, Daar, had been their only means of survival, and that simple fact bothered Grey more than he was willing to let anyone know. There was something strange about the priest, something unnatural.

Such as the fact that Daar had sold their daggers and swords for such an unbelievable sum of money.

Grey had studied the market, once he’d learned how; though valuable today as antiques, their weapons could not have brought the fortune the priest had said they did. Gu Bràth had been purchased with money that had appeared almost as if by magic.

And that was another thing. Why had the old priest not acted more surprised to find ten dangerously scared warriors invading his church? It was as if Daar, like the money, had appeared by magic just when they needed him most.

And that bothered Grey more than he was willing to admit, even to his men. He’d been tempted more than once to confront Daar, to ask the priest why he’d so readily believed their tale and why he had so eagerly agreed to help them. But each time Grey had thought to broach the subject, he had decided against it.

The old priest reminded Grey too much of the man—or the wizard or whatever the hell he’d been—he had seen on top of the bluff just before the great storm had descended upon them four years ago. Daar’s hair was shorter, his beard neatly trimmed, but beyond age and hair color there was an uncanny resemblance that had made Grey suspicious enough ultimately to back down from a confrontation with him.

If Daar really was the same man he’d seen four years ago, Grey needed to tread carefully around him.

Because magic was something even a laird didn’t mess with. And wizards were not people you wanted to anger. And so Grey had kept his thoughts to himself and contented himself instead by keeping a careful watch on the priest. If the old man began acting strangely, if his crooked old cane ever started to glow, well…Grey would find some way then to deal with the problem.

But so far the priest had been nothing but helpful since their suspiciously convenient meeting four years ago. Because of Daar, Grey and his men were viable members of this community now, naturalized citizens who paid taxes, engaged in commerce, and voted in a government they still didn’t fully comprehend. They could read, drive automobiles, and function in society without calling undue attention to themselves—insulated from the world while still being part of it.

They had drawn a mantle of security around themselves, walking a very thin line between the present and their eight-hundred-year-old past.

And because they were forever aware of that fragile boundary in time, all of them had spent the last four years looking over their shoulders—watching for storms. Hell, four of MacBain’s men had actually died in lightning storms, when they’d foolishly—or maybe insanely—sought them out in hopes of returning home.

Not Grey. Or any of his men. They were here, for better or worse, and determined to rebuild their clan.

If they survived long enough to father children.

Grey crested the top of the ridge and stopped to study the landscape. The clouds hung low, sagging over the summit and rolling through the forest like heavy smoke from a fire. Crystallized rain winked through the last of the daylight, weighing down branches as it clung to everything it touched.

Grey unzipped his jacket, letting his body cool. He thought about this new trial he found himself in. And he thought about the woman who shared it with him.

Grace Sutter. She’d been remarkably calm through it all—through the crash, her son’s near death, the pilot’s certain death, and finding herself stranded in the woods with a stranger. And yet Grace had put her trust in him when her technology had failed her.

Grey admired her for that.

Which only made him want her more.

She would make a fine wife for a man who needed a woman of courage, intelligence, and endurance.

She would be a strong mate, capable of partnering a warrior such as himself. Her son was proof she could bear him children, and her actions in the face of today’s danger spoke of her ability to think on her feet.

Although it seemed she would need a firm hand to guide her. Her son was also proof that Grace might be a wee bit too independent, seeing how she was returning to her childhood home with a child of her own

—and without the babe’s father.

Grey stood overlooking what he now recognized as North Finger Ridge and decided that he could handle Grace Sutter. Once he claimed her, he would see she abandoned this tendency to wander around without the protection of her man.

Satisfied with the direction of his thoughts and with his resolve to claim both woman and child, Grey started back down the ridge in the direction of the plane. It was time he made good his boast that he would have them all safely in front of a fire by morning.

He had already been gone ninety-eight minutes.