Highlander Guarded: A Scottish Time Travel Romance (Highlander In Time Book 10)

by Rebecca Preston

  "I suppose so," Kieran said thoughtfully, nodding. "In one way or another."

  "Does that mean I have to be a hero?" Scarlet bit her lip, not really wanting to think about the connotations there. She was a thief… not even a petty thief, a proper, dyed-in-the-wool, career criminal. She robbed people… and not even in a Robin Hood, give-to-the-poor kind of way… unless you counted her as the poor. And she couldn't even claim this new place as a fresh start because the instant she'd gotten here, she'd immediately started robbing people again. How was she supposed to be a hero — to do things that made a positive impact on this community — when her only skillset was… well, stealing things? Maybe she should try the Robin Hood thing. After all, they were surrounded by woods and forests… she could set up camp, recruit some ne'er-do-wells… And probably get routed by the Guard first thing, she thought, shaking her head.

  Kieran was clearly lost in thought, too. "Well, I don't know. What was it you said you did in your own time? You were a student, right?"

  "Yeah, that's right," she said, a little too quickly, remembering her backstory. "An anthropology student."

  "And what is that, exactly?"

  Shit. He had her there. "It's basically the study of … people," she said wisely, hoping like hell that was right… or at the very least, that nobody in this era would know she was talking out of her ass. "Who they are, what they like, that kind of thing…"

  "Well, Delilah is a scholar," he said brightly. "Maybe the two of you will be able to do some… academic… thing."

  Shit. She'd forgotten that one of the women was a real scholar. Damnit — she'd have to justify her so-called anthropology specialization in a hurry… for the millionth time that week, she felt the urge to reach into her pocket for her phone to do a bit of hasty Googling to see if she could at least put up a good front of knowing what the hell anthropology was. Enough to fool a real academic, maybe? But her phone was gone, buried in a hole somewhere miles from here… no doubt that would have future archaeologists scratching their heads, she thought with a grin.

  "What are you smiling at?"

  "Oh, just…" She shook her head. "Time paradoxes. When I got here, I had a phone in my pocket, but it was ruined by the water, so I buried it by the river."

  "Buried it? Why?"

  "To stop anyone from finding it or tracking me."

  Kieran looked utterly mystified. "What kind of magic allows them to do that?"

  She took a deep breath. Where to get started on what a phone was — and what exactly distinguished it from magic? "It's not magic," she started, feeling the need to at least differentiate the technology from the very different forces that had brought her here, doomed Kieran's late wife — forces she still wasn't quite sure she believed in, if she was honest. "It's… phones are little gadgets that let you talk to people far away."

  "Aye, I know that much," Kieran said impatiently. "Your predecessors have gone into some detail on what a phone is and how much they miss it, in fact. But how could someone track you by one? And why would they want to?"

  She focused on the first question, not especially wanting to get into the subject of her being a wanted criminal with this representative of what passed for the police in this era. She was uncomfortably aware that her pockets were still full of stolen goods — she hadn't had a chance to move them to her rucksack under Kieran's watchful eye. She'd insist she needed some time to herself when they reached the Keep — find an excuse to slip away to town at some point and sell them, so long as she could find a buyer who wouldn't ask too many questions… "Uh, it has to do with satellites, I think," she said, wincing a little. "They're, uh, big lumps of metal we put into orbit."

  "Orbit."

  "Space." Holy shit, she'd forgotten about space travel. "We, uh, went to the moon in the sixties, and ever since then we've been kind of — throwing things up to spin around the planet and help us with … weather forecasts and telecommunications and the like."

  "Unbelievable," Kieran said, shaking his head as they walked. She felt very strange, speaking about space travel on this dirt road with a horse behind her and a medieval Scottish guard escorting her to a castle. Almost as though the whole future had been some strange dream she'd woken up from. "If only I could live to see such times."

  "We can give it a go," she shrugged. "Or you can come visit."

  "Visit?" He raised an eyebrow, glancing at her sideways. "I don't think that's an option."

  "Sure. Once I figure out a way back home —" But a shadow had passed over Kieran's face at that, and she sighed. "I suppose you're going to tell me that that's impossible."

  "It is, I'm afraid," he said softly. "Don't think the others haven't tried it. A couple of the more magically inclined women have been looking into the matter for quite some time. But … well, from everything they'd said, Scarlet, it's not possible."

  She eyeballed him for a moment, torn between amusement and annoyance. "Kieran, ten minutes ago you'd have thought space travel was impossible, right?" He hesitated, and she pressed the matter. "Right? Ridiculous, going into space. Up there," she added for emphasis, pointing one finger toward the overcast sky.

  He sighed.

  "Aye, I take your point. And I suppose stranger things have happened. But… well, I don't know," he sighed. "The rest of the women… some of them spoke of going home in their early days, too. Of finding a way. But things changed for them, Scarlet. They made a home here, made a life, found that they were happy here. I think the same will happen for you."

  She narrowed her eyes at him. "What? I'll give up on my whole life in the future in favor of being some docile little wife for someone here, is that it?"

  "No, of course not! I just mean —"

  "I know what you meant," she snapped, feeling her temper flare, and trying her best to suppress it. She didn't want to fight with one of her only friends here, not like this. But what he'd said was irritating her, deep in her core. "I've been here a little while, Kieran," she said levelly. "I've seen how you people treat women. Like second-class citizens. Like obedient little domestic servants, who pop out baby after baby —"

  "That's not true," Kieran protested. "Women are very much —"

  "Who's your Laird?" she demanded, not interested in having this conversation. "Who runs the Keep?"

  "Well, Laird Donal and his lady wife both —"

  "Who gives the orders? Who do you report to?"

  "Donal," he said finally, his teeth gritted.

  "And I suppose you've got a captain or a chief or whatever, someone who runs the Watch? Is she a woman, by any chance?"

  "Captain Eamon," Kieran admitted, "but —"

  "The village. What gender is the — the mayor, or whatever?"

  "He's a man —"

  "And who owns that estate I was just on? The women I saw slaving away in the kitchens, I bet? Since we're so equal here?"

  Kieran rubbed his forehead, clearly defeated by the line of enquiry. She turned her attention back to the road, feeling her pulse settle a little, though the irritation still flared deep in her.

  "I don't want to be an influential man's wife," she snapped. "I don't want my whole purpose to be popping out babies who won't even bear my name. It's bullshit, Kieran MacClaran, and I'm not having it. I'm going home, alright? Come hell or high water, I'm going home."

  He looked at her for a long time, and she couldn't quite read the expression on his face.

  "What?"

  "You sound just like her," he said, an unexpected smile on his face. "God, I wish the two of you could have met."

  Chapter 19

  They walked in silence for a little while after that, Scarlet keeping her eyes on the road ahead, Kieran dropping back to walk a little closer to the horse, who had started to slow as the day grew warmer and her legs, presumably, grew more tired. That was fine by Scarlet. She needed some time to think — to reflect on what she'd just learned. No way home, he'd said. The other women had been working on it for years, then given up, he'd said. What, th
ey were just happy to stay here? In this medieval dump without so much as running water? At least Fiona, whoever she was, was trying to make some adjustments… but Scarlet couldn't help gritting her teeth at the thought of it. She'd been talking to the men around here. She knew how to read between the lines. Some of them were kind and respectful toward women, sure — that was something, at least. But it wasn't the kind of respect they offered each other, was it?

  Not that she had that in the twenty-first century either if she was honest. No matter how feminism seemed to progress, she still knew in her heart that she couldn't trust men to see her as an equal. That was half of the vetting she did before she signed on to a crew with anyone, wasn't it? Even other women couldn't be trusted, sometimes — some of them fell prey to a toxic variation on good old-fashioned misogyny, internalizing men's hatred and distrust of women to such an extent that they felt like they alone were the only exception and turned an equal distrust onto their fellow women. Scarlet had been guilty of it herself, in her younger years — she remembered as a teenager reacting with disgust to the prospect of being considered a girl. And no wonder she had. It wasn't that she found women weak or untrustworthy — quite the opposite. But when popular culture told her repeatedly that women were weak, gossipy, dramatic, temperamental… well, it was hard not to feel like you didn't want to be tarred with that same brush, wasn't it?

  She had spent most of her career proving not only herself as a thief, but her gender — and it had become a point of pride with her that she was not just as good as most men in her line of work, but better. And it wasn't despite her gender — it was because of it. Women had to pay more attention, be more careful, work harder and smarter and longer to achieve the same things that came easy to men — and there were still plenty of people who assumed that everything she'd achieved as a result of skill and hard work was simply a result of her beauty. It was disgusting, really.

  And now she'd have to start again from scratch. Nobody knew her here — nobody knew how good she was, how smart, how skillful. And what was worse — it was the sixteenth goddamn century. Even if she could find her way into whatever criminal underground was around these parts — and she knew there was one — there always was, always would be — she'd have to prove herself twice as hard. It was an exhausting thought.

  No — no, she wanted to go home. She didn't want any more of this stupid medieval claptrap than was necessary. And as much as she was growing fond of Kieran the more time they spent together… she'd be more than willing to say goodbye to him if it meant she could return to her old life.

  And running water.

  In the end, they reached the Keep just before nightfall. Kieran had suggested they stop for lunch on the road, but Scarlet had insisted on walking through, snacking as they traveled. She didn't want to be out on the roads when night fell… and besides, she was eager to get to the Keep, to have a proper look inside the castle she'd only glimpsed from the outside, what felt like decades ago but had only been a day or so. There was still apprehension lingering in her stomach at the prospect of meeting the other women, but as they walked and chatted, she'd been making moderate adjustments to her story, trying to rework her fictional background to make it a little easier to lie about. She'd make herself a more general scholar, she decided — a student of many things, and hopefully her own rather eclectic collection of knowledge would be enough to make it seem believable. Hopefully, Kieran wouldn't notice the inconsistencies… if he did, she'd just tell him she'd stretched the truth with him a little, wanting to seem like a more impressive scholar than she actually was. That would seem believable, right?

  At any rate, the story didn't need to be ironclad. Just strong enough to get her through a short spell with them — before they turned their attention to other things. She wanted to talk to the allegedly 'magically inclined' ones that Kieran had mentioned — the women who might have the ability to find her a way home. She told herself that these conversations were strictly business, that she needed to keep her guard up, especially around the military types and the cop… but she had to admit, a part of her was desperately keen to talk to someone from her own time, someone who could reassure her that the entire future wasn't just some bizarre dream she'd had. When she thought about it, it was pretty crazy that people had gone to the moon…

  The Keep loomed ahead of them in the dusk, as striking as it had been the first time that she'd seen it… though this time, they walked straight toward it, Kieran glancing at her with a smile. She kept her expression neutral, not wanting to play along as the awestruck little woman from the future… but as they rounded the wall and headed for the gates, she had to admit, it was an impressive sight. The huge walls, higher than Weatherby's and thicker, too, with men stationed atop them, gazing down with recently-lit torches held aloft — a few of them shouted friendly greetings to Kieran, which he cheerfully returned, and she pretended not to be aware of the sharp glances they were giving her, of the comments they were exchanging atop the wall — she was too far to hear what they were saying, but she could definitely tell from the body language that they were interested in what she was doing there. The flesh began to creep up the back of her neck. No thief liked being looked at… the whole point was to blend in. How could she blend in if everyone was going to keep staring at her?

  The gates were raised by the time they reached them, and they headed inside, to a wide courtyard with the castle proper looming over it as though keeping watch. A few men were training with swords to one side, and to the other she could see a handful of low buildings which she realized must be the stables when a couple of grooms came hustling out to relieve them of their horse. She reached for her rucksack, frowning, but Kieran stayed her hand.

  "Don't worry. They'll take your things up to your room."

  "My room?" Alarm began to gnaw at her. "I'm a prisoner, then?"

  He blinked at her, clearly taken aback. "What? Of course not! You're a guest — an honored guest," he added.

  She took a deep breath, trying to remind herself that these people wanted to be her friends, not her enemies. If she kept acting so suspicious of them, she was bound to arouse suspicion in turn. She had to play her role a bit better if she was going to get through this. So, she grinned at him. "I'm joking, dummy."

  "Oh." He didn't look especially convinced, and she didn't blame him. "Right. Sorry. Very funny."

  "Not my best work," she admitted with a playful grin that she hoped would set him at his ease at least a little.

  He still looked suspicious as they headed into the castle, and she took a steadying breath, reminding herself to be chill for once in her damn life.

  "So, have you told everyone I'm coming?"

  "Aye, I've been keeping them informed," he said with a smile. "Everyone's very excited."

  Resisting the urge to comment that she felt like a zoo animal being introduced to the public, she followed him up the stairs that led to the enormous wooden door set in the stone wall of the castle. It was amazing to think that all of this had been built by hand, more or less — not that she was any expert in medieval masonry, but she had a suspicion they didn't have cranes in the sixteenth century. Not the kinds she was used to seeing looming over the city skyline, at any rate. She plastered a wondering smile on her face when she saw Kieran looking at her sideways, trying to pretend that part of her mind wasn't analyzing the building in terms of how easy it would be to scale from the outside. Not very, was the conclusion she couldn't help drawing. Not very easy at all.

  The entrance hall was undeniably grand. At one end, stairs ran up to a second floor, but her eyes were drawn to the enormous, ornate tapestries hung on every wall of the large hall they stepped into. It was surprisingly warm in here, in contrast to the cool air outside, and she shrugged the cloak from her shoulders. A young woman in a simple cotton shift and apron hastened up to take it from her, and she pulled it back automatically.

  "It's okay, I'll —"

  "You're most welcome to Castle MacClaran, ma'am
," the girl said brightly, bobbing a curtsey. "Your quarters have been arranged — please, let me take your cloak there for you."

  "Fine," she said uneasily, not wanting to press the matter. She didn't do well with that kind of almost reverential deference from the working class. Something about it just made her feel — soiled, somehow, like she was taking advantage. But there was nothing she could do about it now. Besides, there was a smell in the air that was making her stomach growl — a smell like roast meat and baking bread and wood fire. A smell that suggested that dinner was on the horizon. Maybe she could tolerate this place after all.

  Kieran led her through to a dining hall that made her jaw drop. It looked like something out of a fantasy novel — a dozen or so great wooden tables that she imagined could seat ten men or more. And they were, too. Tartan-clad men sat at the tables or hastened back and forth, finding their places — she followed close on Kieran's heels, vaguely worried that if she lost him among all these broad-shouldered Scotsmen, she'd have trouble finding him again. He led her through to a table that stood on an elevated platform. Here were more men… and — her stomach lurched — a handful of women sitting with them.

  And all eyes were on Scarlet.

  Alright, she told herself firmly, trying to control her racing pulse. You're on stage, babe. Try not to choke.

  "Good evening," Kieran said beside her, sketching a formal little bow to the blond man who sat at the head of the table. The deference — plus the description she'd extracted from Kieran — told her that this was Laird Donal. The head honcho. The man in charge. He was younger than she'd expected, and quite handsome — she gave him a nod, but it was his wife she was interested in. There she sat, bright blue eyes trained on Scarlet, her bright red hair piled haphazardly atop her head, and a pair of thick glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. Interesting. She wondered if those had been made in the twenty-first century. "Laird Donal MacClaran and his Lady wife, Fiona," Kieran said formally, inclining his head. "May I introduce Scarlet Adams."