Highlander's Desire: A Scottish Historical Time Travel Romance (Called by a Highlander Book 5)

by Mariah Stone

Rogene and Catrìona gasped. “We said nae deaths. Just knock them unconscious,” Catrìona said.

  Raghnall gave her a hard stare. “There are too many of them. We canna allow them to alert the rest of the castle.”

  “But—” Rogene said.

  “Nae but, Black Fox,” Raghnall said. “They took my brother. Kidnapped him. I dinna have time for mercy. ’Tis war.”

  “But—”

  “’Tis final,” he said, and she saw steel in his eyes. The steel of a killer. “If ye disagree, ye both”—he looked at Catrìona—“I suggest ye stay behind.”

  Her stomach flipped with panic and fear. She had no choice. She had to trust him. All of them. “I won’t stay behind,” she said.

  “Neither will I,” Catrìona said, her face pale. She clasped Rogene’s hand. “’Tis one thing to hear about battles and death from my brothers,” she said. “’Tis quite another to see people die…to kill them.”

  Rogene squeezed her hand back. She couldn’t agree more. She’d read about medieval battles and clever Highlanders’ tricks in warfare. Thousands died in this skirmish, hundreds in that. This guy won, the other lost. Those had been just numbers on paper.

  Now it was time to see people die. To watch those numbers come into existence.

  And maybe become a number, too.

  Rogene said, “Won’t it interfere with you becoming a nun?”

  Catrìona gave her a hard look, no less steel in her eyes than in her brother’s. “I have only one chance to save my brother, who protected me my whole life.”

  Raghnall gave Rogene a dagger. “Use it if necessary,” he said.

  She took it with a shaking hand. While Raghnall turned back and led the men down the slope covered in grass and bush, Catrìona picked up two thick sticks. “I’d still like to spare lives and just knock them unconscious if I can.” She handed one to Rogene and they began climbing down the slope.

  As planned, they appeared silently and calmly, as though they belonged there. There were no battle cries, no commotion. Claymores and daggers were in the sheaths in the folds of their cloaks. Gravel crunched under Rogene’s feet as she stepped onto the beach. The wind was fresh and brought the sharp, salty scent of the sea. Seagulls squawked, flying high above. The beach was filled with voices of the men throwing sacks and barrels and loading the cart.

  Raghnall’s men blended into the lines of those carrying and throwing things. They got a few surprised glances, but, as Raghnall said, the castle and the village were big enough so that not everyone knew each other and there were enough new warriors circulating around. Raghnall had said they would just assume more manpower had come to help.

  Rogene’s hair was done in a braid and hidden under her hood. She could pass as a boy or a young man, perhaps, at the first glance. Catrìona might attract attention with her dress, but so far, she talked to one of the workers by the cart without alerting anyone.

  Rogene stepped onto the jetty and into the line of the warriors who passed sacks with clothes to one another.

  Once everyone had blended in and was carrying and throwing things, they awaited Raghnall’s signal. Rain hammered against Rogene’s hood. Wet cold crept into her bones. She was shivering—no doubt as much from adrenaline as from the cold. Was she really about to kill someone? Take someone’s life?

  Was she ready to do it for the man she’d known for such a short time and only slept with once?

  A cuckoo called. Cu–ckoo, cu–ckoo. Cu–ckoo, cu–ckoo.

  Rogene’s heart drummed against her rib cage. She caught a roll of cloth thrown to her and passed it, then laid her hand on the stick she had tucked into the belt of her tunic. A couple of men raised their heads, probably realizing that it was weird to hear the call of a cuckoo in the middle of a rainstorm.

  Then, a moment later, came the third and final call.

  Cu–ckoo, cu–ckoo.

  She wished they were allowed a battle cry—one would really help her. But even without it, she turned and hit the warrior who stood with his back to her. Muffled moans of pain went through the jetty, and the sounds of bodies hitting the wooden surface. Waves splashed as sacks and men fell into water. The man Rogene had just hit slowly turned to her, his eyes wide in surprise and anger.

  “Why did ye do that for?” he growled. Then, seeing the battle starting around him, his face fell and he reached for his sword. Fear hit Rogene in a cold wave. She grabbed the stick with both hands and hit him again right in the face. To her surprise, he lost his balance and fell into the river.

  She gasped. But she had no time to ponder the man’s fate, as another man swung his sword at her. She ducked, out of sheer luck, and felt the backsplash of raindrops in her face as the blade passed an inch away from her nose. She retrieved her dagger and ducked again as he swung his sword a second time. Someone was screaming for help, but the waves were crashing hard now, and the storm had hit the beach in earnest. Someone who was fighting behind Rogene’s attacker fell and hit a barrel standing on the jetty. It rolled and tumbled the man off his feet, and he fell between two ships, hitting his head against one of them. The river swallowed him.

  Surprisingly, the battle was dying out. Only a few enemy warriors were still wielding their weapons, and soon the last of the men had been thrown into the water or killed. Rogene stood panting and looking around. Raghnall came to her.

  “Ye all right, wee Black Fox?” he said, touching her shoulder.

  She swallowed through her contracting throat. “Yeah,” she said. “I think so.”

  She knew she must be in shock. The realization that she’d just killed a man roamed somewhere in the back of her mind, ready to hit her like that black storm. But she didn’t let it. She couldn’t afford to yet, because she knew she might fall apart from guilt. And there was no time for that.

  She had to save Angus. She had to focus.

  “Good,” Raghnall said. “These men dinna have special clothes, and the storm will cover us. No one will look at our faces under the hoods.” He turned around and called louder, “Everyone grab something and let’s go.”

  Breathing heavily, Rogene hid the dagger and the stick under her cloak and grabbed two rolls of wool. She passed by a few dead men who lay on the jetty. Pools of blood mixed with the heavy rain and poured into the river. She shuddered and kept looking before her, trying to ignore them. When she found Catrìona, surprisingly, the woman was much more together than she. Her dagger was bloodied, and her eyes shone with a fury that Rogene wouldn’t have believed could exist in the sweet young woman.

  “Are you all right?” Rogene asked.

  With a shaking hand, Catrìona wiped her weapon against her skirt, nodded, and walked with the men up the narrow path towards the castle.

  The cart wouldn’t come up the path, the wheels struggling through the slippery mud, and the men simply left it on the beach. Everyone had packs, barrels, casks, and sacks in their hands. There were no cries of victory and no sense of it—not yet. They’d only gotten themselves an opportunity of a free pass into the castle.

  “Did we lose anyone?” she asked Catrìona.

  The girl nodded solemnly. “We lost two good men. Another is wounded.”

  Rogene’s heart dropped. “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.”

  And as they turned the curve of the path and the castle rose before them, Rogene wondered how many they would lose and if she and Angus would get out of the castle alive at all.

  Chapter 26

  They passed through the gates with no problems, and Rogene looked up at the heavy portcullis with sharp iron edges. The courtyard was muddy, rain bubbling in the black puddles of the dirt-packed ground. The keep loomed tall against the leaden sky, gray and misty through the curtain of rain. Surrounded by four walls, they passed by two buildings. There was no one in the courtyard—everyone was probably inside, hiding from the rain…which wasn’t great news if they had to fight.

  But no one threw a second glance at them as they proceeded. Sentinels stood on
the walls, huddling in their cloaks, no doubt just wishing rain would stop. No one expected an attack in such weather.

  “Where do you think he is?” Rogene asked Raghnall, who carried a sack on his back.

  “Catrìona?” he said.

  His sister held a light chest under her armpit. “There’s a dungeon,” she said. “He could be there.”

  Raghnall nodded and turned to his men, who walked behind. “Follow me,” he said. “To the dungeon.”

  They proceeded to the keep and once they’d entered through a heavy, arched door, he leaned to Rogene. “If we encounter someone, I’ll do the talking.”

  Again, a protest formed in her gut. Let him do the talking? What if he said something wrong?

  But at the beach, allowing him to take the lead had worked well. The bloodshed had gone as seamlessly as possible given the advantage of the enemy in numbers. Raghnall had been right about everything so far. Was it so bad to work as a team? It wasn’t about Rogene being the best at everything. She knew she wasn’t, clearly. Raghnall was an experienced warrior and someone who one could entrust with their life, as he’d just proved.

  It was about relying on others. About giving up control. About trusting life.

  Back in the twenty-first century, she didn’t trust others with her mom’s research. She told herself she didn’t want to share her mother’s legacy. But it was just an excuse. The real reason was that Rogene feared trusting others.

  Her parents had let her down when they died. It was irrational, but that was how a twelve-year-old Rogene had felt. Abandoned and betrayed and very, very afraid.

  Her aunt and uncle had been the only two people left on whom she could rely.

  But they’d showed her she couldn’t count on them after all. They’d showed her she and David were on their own.

  There was no team. There was no family. There were just people trying to survive.

  But Raghnall had managed to win down there. He’d been right about every single thing. It was because he cared, she realized. Because he was saving his brother.

  What that told her was if she gave up control with people who really cared about the outcome, it would all work out.

  And she had to admit, she really liked the sense of teamwork, of being part of something.

  But whether they could continue to work as a team inside the keep remained to be seen.

  Still carrying cargo, they approached the tower. Raghnall pushed the heavy door open and entered. There were about fifteen warriors there. Many of them sat and played cards. Others stood and talked, drinking wine and ale. The room wasn’t big but was full of stuff—boxes, chests, casks, sacks, firewood.

  As heads turned to him, Raghnall froze on the doorstep. Rogene’s hand slid to the handle of her dagger under her cloak. For what felt like an eternity, no one said anything.

  “What are ye waiting for, man?” said one of the warriors. “Come inside. ’Tis raining.”

  Rogene sighed out with relief. They went inside. Raghnall put the sack in the corner and looked around, water dripping down his cloak and hood into the reeds on the floor. It smelled like a London subway car during rain—wet wool and stones. Rogene elbowed her way through the gathering of warriors and put the roll she’d been carrying on a stack of boxes.

  Catrìona went inside, too, but not all their warriors could fit in. As she laid the box on the floor, all eyes of the enemy men landed on her, and they frowned.

  “Who are ye, lass?” one of them said.

  Rogene felt blood wash down from her face. She quickly glanced at Raghnall but couldn’t see his face from under his hood. Goddamn it! Was he just going to stand there like a statue?

  Panic gripped her throat. She had to do something. She was wrong to trust Raghnall. He was no good.

  “She’s just a lass,” Rogene said with a fake Scottish accent. Faking—so badly!—the voice of a man.

  They all glanced at her, looking under her hood.

  “And who are ye?” said another one.

  “Who’re all of ye?” said a third.

  “Ah, lass, who asked ye to interfere?” cried Raghnall, drawing his dagger and throwing back his hood. “I said I was going to talk.”

  “Tullach Ard!” the Mackenzie men cried and drew their weapons, and Raghnall started the battle by launching himself at the nearest warrior. One stab and the warrior fell dead.

  Around Rogene, a fight started. It was mostly a fistfight, as there was little space. Small blades of knives and daggers flashed in the dim light of the torches. The room filled with pained grunts, thuds, and cracks. Someone launched at Rogene. Bared white teeth flashed before her. Panicked, she stepped back, but Raghnall grabbed the man by the collar of his leine croich and pressed the edge of a dagger into his throat.

  “Where is Angus Mackenzie?” he growled.

  “Go to hell,” the man replied.

  Raghnall grabbed him by the throat, his fingers digging into the man’s neck, and raised him up. “Where. Is. He?”

  The man grunted in pain as he struggled to breathe.

  Raghnall let him stand on the ground and pressed the edge of the knife into his beard.

  “Ye think I am jesting?”

  A shiver ran through Rogene as she saw yet another version of Raghnall. The Raghnall who was death. “I will slit yer throat if ye dinna say where the Mackenzie prisoner is.”

  The man’s mouth twitched.

  Raghnall pressed the blade into his neck, and a thin trickle of blood crawled down the man’s throat. “Now.” Raghnall pressed harder.

  The man’s eyes widened in horror, in surprise, and he closed his eyes in panic.

  “Third story, Lord. Second door to the right.”

  Raghnall glanced back at Rogene. “Hear that? Go!”

  Rogene stood frozen a moment, not quite believing they really had gotten the information out of the man. On wobbly feet, she turned and took the only flight of stairs leading up.

  As she looked over her shoulder, she saw Raghnall open the man’s throat in a fountain of gore. Rogene suppressed a shocked scream. Who was Raghnall? A rogue or a noble knight?

  She went up and up. The floors were empty. From each landing, two corridors ran, one to the left and one to the right, with doors on either side. Torches illuminated the way, and the higher she climbed, the dryer the air was.

  Finally, on the third floor, she stopped, breathing heavily, her heart drumming.

  To the right. Second door. She walked to the right wing of the landing, stepping softly against the wooden floors. The sounds of a battle came distantly from down below.

  There it was, the second door. Nothing distinguished it from the rest. She laid her hand on the massive door, pressed the heavy wood, and entered.

  Chapter 27

  Angus couldn’t believe his eyes. Was he dreaming or was she really standing there, in the door to his prison?

  Her eyes were as large as pound coins.

  Yes, his wrists hurt and were bruised from being cuffed for days, and he was still naked—though Euphemia had graciously covered his lower body with the blanket after she fed him his dinner yesterday. He pushed himself up to sitting. Goddamn it, he hated being seen by her like this… Helpless… Naked…

  His face was burning from embarrassment and humiliation, anger thundering hotly in his blood.

  By God’s bones, did she think he’d mated with Euphemia? He couldn’t tell why she was so shocked and what she was thinking.

  “I didna marry her,” he said. “And I didna bed her.”

  She blinked and finally seemed to rouse from her stupor. She walked into the room, letting the door swing closed. But just before it did, a soft clanging and screams from below caught his attention. A battle?

  But the door closed before he could be sure, and she approached the bed and leaned on the mattress with one knee. She cupped his face, and her touch sent a tingle of energy across his skin.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, her big, dark eyes so close he could
move his head forward and kiss her eyelids. “Did she hurt you?”

  “I’m fine.” He swallowed hard, commanding himself to not fall into the depths of her dark eyes. “God Almighty, I’m glad to see ye.”

  It was like everything brightened around him, colors gained vibrancy, sounds grew louder, and he was warmer.

  But there was no time to fall into any sentiments. Where was Euphemia? She hadn’t come to him yet this morning. He glanced at the door and shook his arms, the handcuffs rattling. Futile, of course.

  Rogene glanced at the chains. “Key?”

  He shook his head. “I dinna ken.”

  She glanced around. “Could it be here?”

  “Mayhap.”

  She left the bed and began searching through the chests lined against the wall.

  “How did ye get here?” Angus asked.

  She was dressed as a man and was soaked through, her woolen cape leaving pools of water on the floor.

  “Raghnall and Catrìona came, too,” she said as she rummaged in a chest. “Laomann allowed twenty-four warriors to come to save you.”

  Angus closed his eyes. Two dozen warriors had come to save him, risking their lives for him—as well as his brother, his sister, and this woman he’d known for only a short time. She hadn’t gone back to the future. She hadn’t run. She’d come to rescue him.

  His chest exploded in a burst of warmth.

  “Are they all right?” he said.

  “They were when I left them.” She went to kneel by another chest. “They’re fighting downstairs.” She looked back at him and their eyes locked. Something ran between them—an understanding, a connection they’d had since the very moment they met.

  The door opened and Angus’s heart jolted. A blond figure in a pale-blue dress that highlighted the brilliant blue of her eyes.

  Euphemia.

  “Are ye looking for this?” she asked, dangling one key on a ring.

  Rogene jumped to her feet, pale. She muttered something under her breath, retrieved a dagger, and pointed it at Euphemia.

  “Yes,” Rogene said. “Give the key to me.”