Into the Dim (Into the Dim, #1)(11)

Nothing.

My mind raced as I tried to decide what to do. Stay with him so he doesn’t roll off and drown? Ride back to the house and call 911? Do they even have 911 here? Dammit, why didn’t I bring my phone?

An expensive-looking camera hung around his neck. The source of the glint I’d seen. The display screen had brightened to life when I shook him. When I saw the image it displayed, my mouth dropped open.

“What the hell?”

“Not bad, eh?” I nearly toppled over as he muttered in a voice creaky with pain. “Of course, it likely won’t win any prizes. But you have to admit, the composition’s quite lovely.”

I didn’t respond as I jerked the camera toward me and scrolled through the images. He was right. The light, the setup, the arrangement of each image highlighted the stark, breathless beauty of the Scottish Highlands. It wasn’t the background that freaked me out, though. It was the subject.

Every photo—more than a dozen—was a close-up of me.

My eye twitched. “Who are you? Why were you taking pictures of me?”

Dark, damp hair was plastered over his forehead, though with blood or water, I wasn’t sure. I could see now that he was around my age. Sixteen. Seventeen, maybe. He gave a little groan as he scraped the hair back and turned his face toward me.

Then, he opened his eyes.

Behind a fringe of black lashes, his left eye was a soft green, like sunlight on moss. The right, the brilliant blue of an October sky. As I stared down at him, the world warped around me.

The rush of water grew muted and distant. My nose and chest filled with the stench of . . . smoke? Yes. Wood smoke, tinged with a sickly sweetness of charred meat. Somewhere, a fire crackled and popped like bacon in a pan. Screams. The thump of hooves. A winey scent of overripe apples.

“Hello?” a voice called from far away. I clung to it like a lifeline.

The river’s gurgle returned, and I suddenly realized I was standing in the middle of a swift current, gaping down at a complete stranger.

“I know what you’re thinking, love.” The words came out husky, his accent more blue-blood than Highlander. “You’re wondering how someone so strong, so handsome, and so obviously endowed with athletic ability could’ve gotten himself thrown from a bloody horse.” He winced as he sat up and swung long jean-clad legs over the side of the rock. “The answer is quite simple, really.”

His camera still in my hand, I yanked on the strap. He groaned when it jerked his head forward. I tilted it to read the brass plate bolted to the side. PROPERTY OF BRAN CAMERON. IF FOUND, PLEASE RING . . . When I let go, the heavy camera struck against his chest with a satisfying thwack.

Edging a few steps back, I asked through stiff lips, “Why were you taking pictures of me, Bran Cameron?”

At first I thought he was ignoring me as he examined the blood smeared on his fingers. “Forgive me, won’t you? I’m, uh . . . feeling a bit off.”

With a moan, his head dropped into his hands.

“Crap,” I grumbled, torn between irritation and pity. “Are you okay?”

And what the hell do you do if he’s not, Walton?

Bran raised his head and gave me a wobbly grin. One of his canines was crooked. Oddly, it made me feel better, because the rest of him looked as if he’d been drafted by an architect. All clean lines and straight edges. He wasn’t beautiful, the nose a bit too long, the lips sculpted instead of full. Though his jawline was sharp enough to cut glass, it was his eyes I couldn’t look away from. Those peculiar, mismatched eyes.

“I know you.” The words tumbled out before I could stop them.

“I don’t think so, love.” He peered at me. “I can assure you if we’d ever met, I’d remember. I have an uncanny ability to remember pretty girls.”

Pretty? Me? Yeah. Sure.

His trim eyebrows waggled. “Unless of course you attend St. Sebastian Academy down in Kent? I admit, I’ve snuck past their fences a time or two. And I may have had a pint or three beforehand. So if we did, as you Americans like to say, ‘hook up,’ I wish to offer my sincerest apology for my poor memory.”

Blood boiled into my face. In my sixteen years on this earth, no guy had ever, ever flirted with me. The redneck boys where I was from preferred girls like my cheerleader cousins. Size two. Blond. Busty. Brainless.

“As you so astutely observed”—from his seated position, he gave a comical bow—“I am Bran Cameron. And, yes. I was photographing you. Though in truth, I was out stalking.”

At my look, he chuckled. “Not in any depraved way, I assure you. I was merely hunting for the Highland stag. Some use guns to stalk. I prefer electronics.” He gave an exaggerated shudder that almost made me smile. “Less blood and entrails, that way. Then I saw a lovely vision on a horse and, well . . . I couldn’t resist.” He shivered. “And now that we are properly acquainted, would you mind terribly helping me off this rock and out of this bloody cold water?”

I realized I was just standing there, gaping at him like a moron, while his lips turned blue with cold.

“Oh.” I held out a hand. “Yeah, okay.”

He took it, pulling himself to his feet. Strong fingers squeezed mine as he bobbled, then steadied. My eyes were level with his chin. I focused on that, instead of his eyes.

Back on dry land, I noticed blood pulsing in a steady stream down his neck, staining the collar of his jacket. I hurried over to Ethel and retrieved a scarf I’d tied to her saddle.