Why did she feel so worried anyway? Nothing was going to happen.
Stop being such a coward, she told herself, taking a deep breath before walking through the doorway into the darkness inside the gatehouse.
There was a door to her left but it was closed and locked. She could hear movement inside but no one answered her when she called out.
At the far end of the gatehouse the door was open, light streaming in from the courtyard beyond.
Her footsteps echoed as she began walking toward the light.
The square courtyard she emerged into was grassed, the remains of buildings visible in the low lines of stone that cut through the verdant green toward each of the walls.
A set of stone steps ran up the right hand corner of the courtyard, ending in a huge wooden door. There was another door to her left and one more straight ahead across the grass. Other than that, there was only stone, grass, and more stone.
She tried the door to her left first. It was locked.
Of course.
The door at the far side of the courtyard was also locked.
“The stairs it is then,” she said, retracing her path to the stone steps.
Climbing them gave her the oddest sensation. It wasn’t anything she could put her finger on. If asked, she would have said it was like wading through treacle. Her legs had to work harder than they should to ascend the short climb to the door.
She paused, sure she could hear talking behind her. Turning, she saw no one, the sound dying away.
She assumed it was a trick of the walls, the breeze echoing off the stone and mixing with her strange sense of anxiety to make her hear things that weren’t really there.
“I hope you’re not locked as well,” she said, taking a deep breath before turning the brass handle of the door at the top of the stairs.
The door swung inward, a gust of cool air blowing out as she stepped inside. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the dark and as they did she once again heard swords clashing and voices talking. What was that?
She was in a wide but empty reception room, devoid of any furniture or decoration. She headed for the far side, passing through another door and then up a spiral staircase that seemed to go on forever.
Once again she had the sensation of walking being harder than it should.
She was starting to agree with Tabby that this was a strange place. She was glad she was only here briefly. It was not a castle she’d be adding to her list of attractions to visit, despite her interest in medieval history.
The stairs opened out into a long corridor filled with numerous wooden doors. She tried the first few but they were locked.
Then she heard a sound coming from the far end, near the arrow slit window that was letting in a blindingly bright stream of sunlight.
She headed that way, stopping outside the door where the noise was coming from. It sounded like a sword thwacking something inside. Swishes through the air and the crash of metal.
Was the laird sword fighting in there?
Battling ghosts, she thought for no reason.
She knocked and waited.
The sound of swords died at once. A gust of wind blew down the corridor, chilling her to the bone.
She shivered as the door opened and she almost fell backward in surprise at the sight of the room beyond. It was like looking through a timewarp.
Just as she began to get over her shock the laird appeared, towering over her, sweat pouring down his face. He had a sword in his hand though at least it was pointed at the ground, not at her.
He was nothing like she’d imagined.
Tabby had said Laird Jock MacGregor was eccentric and she wasn’t kidding.
Glancing past the laird into his room, she couldn’t see a single modern item. Everything looked like it had come straight out of an antique shop.
There was a four poster bed covered in furs, a roaring fire in the hearth despite the heat outside, elaborate tapestries covering the whitewashed walls.
That was all she had time to examine before he blocked her view, filling the doorframe with his imposing figure, stooping to avoid banging his head as he glared at her from underneath a mess of flaming red hair.
She took a look at his clothes. Black skintight hose of worn leather like he was in a rock band. A tartan baldric tied around one shoulder, covering some but not all of his taut muscular tanned chest. His boots were plain, no laces in sight.
His flowing mane wouldn’t have looked out of place ravaging some innocent woman on the cover of a Mills and Boon. All of a sudden she was glad Tabby had a cold.
She had pegged him on the drive as a seventy plus doddery old Scotsman, kilt, sporran, wiry ginger hair. The man she was looking at was nothing like she’d imagined.
He was far younger than she expected, outrageously tall, more muscle than man, and oh, so handsome he took her breath away.
His flowing long hair framed his face perfectly, his chiseled jaw spoke of stubbornness and being quick to anger, a hint of stubble, sweat running down his chest. And why was that sword in his hand?
He scowled out at her from smoldering dark eyes that she swore instantly made her shrink at least a foot in height. She found herself squirming under his gaze.
What was he doing to her? Why was he so furious and why did she suddenly desperately want to please him, make him smile, make him forgive her?
What was wrong with her? She hadn’t even done anything wrong.
“You’re late,” he said in a thick Scottish brogue. Then he looked surprised, as if he’d been expecting someone else. “Who are you?”
Chapter Two
Jock MacGregor was furious. The wooden training dummy in the corner of his bedchamber would have attested to that if it could speak. Chips and splinters were still floating down to the floor when he finally relaxed his sword hand.
He had only left the great hall an hour earlier and already he could feel the anger so recently receded returning with a vengeance.
He swung the sword once more.
He needed to get it out. If he couldn’t take out his rage on the person who’d stolen from the clan, he could at least take it out on the outstretched oak limbs of the training dummy.
All their money. Gone.
The worst thing was it had happened on his watch. He’d promised his parents he would take care of the clan, protect them and their future. When he took over, he swore an oath to them to look after the people and their lands.
And what had he done? Let someone slip in behind his back and empty out the treasury.
The day had begun with such promise. He had woken just before dawn on the first proper day of summer. He had dreamed during the night that he was swimming toward Kirrin Island.
But as he turned to drift on his back he felt something by his feet, something about to reach up out of the water to drag him down into the depths. Cold claw like fingers beginning to wrap around his ankle.
He woke up to find a crow sitting on his foot. As he sat up, the crow leaped into the air with an indignant caw, and then flew out of the window.
The first gray shafts of light from the rising sun were starting to illuminate the far wall of his bedchamber. He rarely slept with the shutters closed, preferring the feel of the wind blowing in, reminding him of his ancestors who had slept out in the open every night, centuries before MacGregor Castle was built.
It was his grandfather who was the first to sleep indoors every night. Old Cam MacGregor, now at rest in the chapel he built alongside his beloved wife, Jock’s grandmother, Rachel.
He had few memories of them. He remembered how much they loved each other. Would Jock ever have anyone love him like his grandparents loved each other? Or his parents for that matter.
Eddard still had Morag. Even in their increasing dotage their love for each other remained strong. Cam had had Rachel.
Who did Jock have?
No one.
Would he end up in the crypt alone and unloved?
He ros
e from his slumber and made his way downstairs to the courtyard. There he washed with water from the well, letting his naked skin dry in the first warming rays of the summer sun.
It had always been his tradition.
Awake before anyone else to let the sun hit his flesh, making him feel alive and glad of it. Who needed a wife when he had the highlands for a bride?
Returning to his bedchamber shortly afterward, he dressed, and then made his way down to the armory. The new sword was ready. It was sitting by the hearth, an open invitation to thieves.
Not that anyone would dare steal the laird’s blade. It would be recognized at once from the M in the handle. None could hope to pass it off as their own or risk selling it. So there it remained until he came to claim it. The blacksmith had done a good job. Now time to test it.
Lachlan was waiting for him in the training arena, back to him, bent over his armor, rubbing linseed oil into the leather.
“I swear your hair gets whiter every day,” Jock said, sneaking up behind him with sword drawn, nudging him in the shoulder with it.
Lachlan spun around, the tip of his own blade jabbing Jock in the ribs. “You’ll have to be quieter than that if you want to kill your sword master.”
“So your ears aren’t fading as fast as your muscles?”
“You’ll be old one day, my lad. Mark my words.”
“Never as old as you.”
Lachlan barked out a laugh before getting to his feet. “Ready?”
The next hour was spent fending off attacks from his mentor. Lachlan had been teaching him sword fighting since he was barely able to lift a wooden blade into the air.
“You never stop learning,” Lachlan said as he said every time, their session winding down at last.
“Nor finding new places to bruise,” Jock replied, rubbing the small of his back. “I’m still not sure how you managed that one.”
“You got cocky and overreached, it’s always your downfall. Let the enemy come to you, dinnae be so eager to lunge for them. Learn some patience, my lad. It’ll stand you in good stead in battle and in life.”
“As if I haven’t learned patience having to listen to you for the last twenty years.”
“Aye, and have you ever been killed in battle?”
“Not yet.”
“Then your lessons haven’t been a total waste.”
After practice ended, Jock breakfasted with the rest of the clan in the great hall, remaining after most of them left, the remainder of the morning dedicated to administration of the clan’s affairs.
His almoner and financier were deep in talks at the far end of the table while he handled a dispute between Kirrin Abbey and the smallholders over fishing rights to the loch.
“I settle it thus,” Jock said once both sides had put their case to him. “The abbey shall have the right to fish in the loch as it has since its foundation.”
“Good,” the abbot said. “So that’s that.”
“I am not finished,” Jock said, drawing the man up short. “The villagers will have the right to provide for themselves whatever fish they can catch on Sundays while the abbey concerns itself with worship, and if I hear any more talk of arrows being fired by either side, I shall remove the rights from both of you and eat the fish myself. Is that clear?”
“Aye, my laird,” the delegate from the smallholders said with a slight bow. “And you have my gratitude for your beneficence.”
“What say you, abbot?” Jock asked.
“It is a sad day when an abbot has fewer rights than a peasant who is permitted to fish on the Lord’s day. Mark my words, it is a small step from there to demons crawling up out of the depths to take over the souls of all sinners.”
“God made us all equal in His eyes, did He not?”
The abbot grumbled but said nothing. After a short battle of eyes with Jock, he gave in, nodding his acceptance of the terms.
Jock dismissed them both, watching as his financier left with them, arm already around the abbot’s shoulder. Robin would smooth things over. That was his job.
Feeling a tap on his shoulder, he looked up to see the almoner looking pale. “Is it true, my laird?”
“Adrian. You look pale. What ails you?”
“Robin tells me there is nothing spare to give the paupers for the festival.”
“There should be plenty to spare. We still have twenty years of treaty with the king. With no taxes to pay we should have a fortune waiting to be handed out.”
“He says there is not a penny available to spare.”
Robin reappeared at the doorway. Jock beckoned him over. “Adrian tells me there is nothing for the paupers.”
“Aye, my laird. I thought we might discuss this matter in private?”
Jock waved an arm, dismissing the waiting petitioners. Adrian went with them, leaving Jock alone with his financier.
“Well?” Jock asked, folding his arms over his chest. “What’s this all about?”
“I regret, my laird, that funds have gone missing from the treasury.”
Jock exploded. “Gone missing? How can clan money simply go missing? It is kept under lock and key.”
“Please, my Laird. Keep your voice down, you will panic your people.”
“They will riot when they find out. Where has the money gone?”
“I dinnae ken.”
“You dinnae ken? Are you my financier or not.” A lead weight landed in the pit of Jock’s stomach. The summit with the king was coming up. “Have you forgotten I promised to lend the king substantial funds for his campaign against the English?”
“I ken, my laird.” Robin didn’t look anywhere near worried enough.
“How much has gone missing?”
“You have a quarter of what was there a month ago.”
“Three quarters of the clan’s wealth gone? How the devil has that happened?”
“I dinnae ken.”
Jock leaned close enough to Robin to see the whites of his eyes. The financier gulped when he pointed a finger at him. “You have until noon to find out where it’s gone or I will take your head before the king takes mine. Do you have any idea what he’ll do if I cannot lend him what I promised? My head will be on a spike and the clan will be cast out of the highlands.”
“You could fight him if it came to that.”
“Fight our king and all his armies? I am strong, Robin, but no man can take on a king’s army.”
Jock was up before Robin could say anything else, storming out of the great hall, speaking to no one in the corridor outside. They parted like waves before a warship, seeing the mood he was in.
He headed up his private staircase, shutting himself in his bedchamber before picking up his sword.
Be patient, Lachlan had told him, let the enemy come to you. He mulled on those words for a moment before anger rose up inside him. As it did so, he swung his sword, lunging for the training dummy.
He fought it until sweat poured down his body, all the while his mind whirling. Three quarters of the coin gone.
He thought about his parents. He had promised them he could do it, that he could protect the clan. That was just before their minds had started to go.
What was he supposed to tell them? That he had let them down? That he couldn’t be trusted after all? They wouldn’t understand. Their minds might go completely. Then where would he be? Responsible for the downfall of the clan and the death of his parents.
He slammed the sword into the wood, having to yank it free, it bit so deep. Robin better have an answer by noon. The death of his financier would be little comfort when the king arrived.
He stopped, crossing the floor, looking out at the sundial in the courtyard. Gone twelve. Time was running out. Not just for Robin but for him as well. If he couldn’t fund the king’s campaign, his life would be forfeit.
They were supposed to be free of tax duties for fifty years, ever since his father saved the king’s tax train from his own steward’s nefarious attempts to steal it. His fath
er had helped the king. What was he going to do?
Tell him, sorry I can’t help you, you’ll have to let the English take over the highlands?
He would be executed and no amount of new swords would prevent it. Worse than that, the clan would be scattered.
He returned to the training dummy with fresh fury, smacking his sword into the wood so hard it wouldn’t come free until he used both hands, grunting at the effort.
He swung again, roaring with anger. He almost didn’t hear the knock at the door. Robin was here at last. He better have answers.
Wiping the sweat away from his eyes he crossed the room, sword still in hand. “You’re late,” he said as he pulled it open. He blinked. It wasn’t Robin. It was a woman. “Who are you?”
She was holding a wooden box. For a brief moment he was sure she was there to assassinate him, that the box held a knife.
She had the beauty of the trained killer, combined with an ability to get past his guards. How had she made it to his private quarters?
She stumbled back from him as he moved his sword toward her.
She wore the strangest of clothes, he noticed for the first time. Her arms were visible as was her hair, the style like nothing he’d ever seen. She had flawless skin and clean hands, holding the box out toward him not like a murder attempt but more like supplication before a priest.
She looked so innocent, so different to any woman he’d seen before.
“Well,” he said, taking in the swell of her chest and hips, her long neck, pale skin, flushed cheeks, and those eyes that he could drown in.
Her lips looked so plump and kissable, he had to resist leaning forward and sweeping her into his arms. They were lips that begged to be kissed even as she shied away from him.
If she was an assassin her chance had gone. He might have been swayed by her looks but she hadn’t taken advantage of him being distracted.
Not only that but he was the one holding a sword and she was the one looking afraid. “Who are you?”
“This is for you,” she said in a strange accent, pushing the box toward him. “You ordered it.”
He took it from her, looking down to see his name written on parchment across the top of the box. “Who are you?” he asked again. “And be sure to speak the truth.”
The Key to Her Heart: A Highlander Time Travel Romance Page 2