The Key to Her Heart: A Highlander Time Travel Romance

by Blanche Dabney

  She thrust the form toward him, hoping he couldn’t see how much her hands were shaking.

  “What is this?” he asked, taking the pen from her and holding it in front of his eyes. “I have never seen its like.”

  “You’ve never seen a pen?”

  “A pen. What is its purpose?”

  “For signing that.” She pointed at the blank space on the form.

  “This writing,” he replied, his voice lower, running his fingers along the text. “So neat. Did you write this?”

  “Yeah, very funny,” she said, sure he was teasing her. “Could you just sign it.”

  “With what?”

  “Here,” she said, no longer so sure he was teasing. She took the pen from him, her fingers brushing the back of his hand as she did so, feeling a jolt of electricity pass through her from his touch.

  She ran her hand above the paper, miming the signing of it. “Like this.”

  He took the pen back, examining it again before laughing. “This is a trick. You use it like a quill yet you do not dip it first?”

  “I promise it’s not a trick.” Tabby had called him eccentric but had he really never seen a pen before? “Just sign and I’ll be off.”

  He leaned the form against the wall, signing with a flourish, laughing out loud as he did so, the sound so alien compared to his angry tone that it made Daisy jump to hear it. “It is a magical device, this. I shall keep it.”

  Daisy shrugged. “Sure, why not. It’s not like the laird of a castle couldn’t afford to buy his own pen.”

  He handed back the form, looking her in the eyes as he did so. “If you return here again, I will not let you leave. You have had your chance to kill me. Consider your good fortune that I let you walk away. I shall not be so kind if you ever come back. The abbot spoke of demons and I have my doubts about you.”

  He vanished inside, the door slamming shut and leaving Daisy alone. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end for a moment and then slowly went down as her heart rate stubbornly failed to return to normal.

  What on earth had he meant by that?

  She refused to think about it. He was clearly mad.

  It didn’t matter anyway. The package was delivered, the signature sorted. She never had to come back here again.

  There was no way she was ever going back because if she did he might turn out to be some crazed kidnapper. Bad news through and through.

  Sure, he was drop dead gorgeous and just the touch of his hand on hers made her want to melt into a puddle and she wanted him so much she ached inside, but he was bad news with a capital B.

  She felt a strange pang of loss as she drove away for the last time. What was it about him that was driving her wild? Was his madness contagious? Could that be it?

  She drove home, doing her best to shut him out of her mind. If only it was as easy to shut him out of her dreams.

  Chapter Four

  She wore different clothes. That was what Jock found himself thinking about after she’d gone.

  She was wearing odd attire when she brought that box. He had barely had time to put her out of his mind before she was back. It had been barely two hours since she’d gone and she was back. She’d changed clothes. Why had she changed?

  She’d left him with a magical device though and he’d begun to think, as he looked at it, that perhaps it was a sign she was not an assassin. Perhaps she was a witch.

  A pen, she’d called it. He examined the thing closely, smooth and shaped much like bone but different. There was a word written down the side of it. Papermate. What did that mean?

  She intrigued him. Was she a witch? The clan would no doubt think so if he voiced his concerns to them but he was less sure that she was a dabbler in the dark arts. There was something too innocent about her.

  What was it then?

  He examined the pen closely, shaking it and listening for any sound from within. Nothing.

  He took it apart.

  Inside was a thinner black cylinder and a metal spring smaller than any he had ever seen. Reassembling the device, he took it over to his long table, pulling over a piece of vellum still attached to its stretching frame.

  He gripped the pen like a quill, drawing it along the calf skin, marvelling at the dark line that appeared before him.

  Magical.

  Like her.

  He sat in front of the vellum with the pen on the table, watching it closely lest it should move and betray any sign of being bewitched. He should have asked her more questions about where it had come from but he needed her gone.

  Something had happened to him when he looked at her. Those black men’s hose of the strangest fabric, that white chemise tucked into it, her arms scandalously on show. Had he ever seen a woman’s bare arms like that before? Only in the kitchen, the cook with her arms deep in the bread dough. This was not the same.

  Her clothes clung to her in a way he had never seen before. If she was there to kill him, let her try. She did nothing. She just stood there, looking scared of him, as she should, sneaking into his private quarters like that.

  Her every curve had been visible and he had just begun to think more about the swell of her chest when the answer came to him.

  She wasn’t a witch.

  She was possessed.

  It was the only possible explanation for her strange choice of clothing and odd mannerisms. For how attracted he was to her.

  No one would willingly choose such masculine attire. Nor would they openly display a device that could produce ink without being dipped. There was a demon inside her.

  He shook his head. Was he overreacting? Or was this a test from the Lord?

  He frowned, leaning back in his chair and sighing loudly. She was invading his thoughts. He was supposed to be thinking about the missing money, not about what he’d said to her before she went. What was it he’d said?

  If she came back, he would not let her leave. He smiled. He had said it to taunt her, to try and bring forward her assassination attempt. Yet now he was sure she was no killer, he was still glad he’d said it.

  It had been a foolish thing to say but he had enjoyed the flash of fear in her eyes. She looked like a startled rabbit caught in the gaze of a hawk. No, more like a lamb that is cornered by a wolf.

  It was good that she had gone. It would not be easy to remain chaste with her form flaunted before him in such a way. He was a man, after all.

  There was a reason why women dressed modestly, as the priest was so fond of saying at his services. Showing off her curves was designed to tempt him, but for what purpose?

  She was an enigma.

  He stood up, crossing the room to the altar, kneeling before it. “Forgive me, my thoughts, my Lord,” he said, praying quietly for a moment.

  When he stood up again he felt more at peace. He had committed no sin. She had gone. If she came again, he would keep her but not for the reasons that would condemn him to hell. Instead, he would save her.

  He would cast out the demon he suspected was inside her and thus save her soul for God.

  Was she possessed?

  Was he?

  That could be the only explanation for making him obsess over a woman he had seen only twice?

  He remembered why she had come to him when he saw the fireplace and the strange object she had brought.

  He picked up the box she had delivered and then pulled open the lid. Inside was a red velvet cushion and upon it was laid a small key, not more than three inches long.

  The key was made of silver and carved into the handle was the letter M. This thing was becoming more intriguing by the minute.

  He needed answers and he knew just who to turn to in order to get them.

  He found Lachlan in the tavern just outside the castle walls. The sword master was in the middle of a battle of wits with a carter’s lad when Jock walked in. The laird stood in the doorway a moment, watching the drama unfold.

  Lachlan was looking grayer by the day. Old war injuries had given him
a slight stoop but he still towered over most of the clan. His chair creaked under him, bearing up at the challenge of holding such bulk.

  His beard hid his mouth well but Jock could tell the old man was smiling. It was the twinkle in his eyes that gave it away. No doubt he had the lad trapped in one of his countless riddles.

  “A bed but does not sleep?” the lad said, scratching his head. “It is impossible. All things must sleep.”

  “Answer right or the coins are mine. Time’s up. What say you?”

  “A river,” Jock said from the doorway, stepping forward and sweeping the coins from the table into his hand.

  “That’s no fair,” Lachlan said, turning to the Laird. “You already ken that one.” He swung a punch at Jock who easily ducked back. The carter’s lad gasped, no one swung at a laird and lived. The rest of the tavern barely looked up. They were used to such horseplay between Jock and Lachlan.

  “You’re getting old and slow,” Jock said with a laugh, ducking as a second punch came his way.

  “Aye,” Lachlan replied, holding his other hand up and opening it to reveal the coins he’d stolen back while Jock’s attention was on the fisticuffs. “But still faster than you.”

  “Once again, you outwit me.” Jock laughed, not surprised to find his own hand emptied in the distraction.

  Lachlan tossed a coin to the carter’s lad. “Get yourself a drink with that,” he said before turning back to Jock. “What brings the laird out to drink with the tearaways of the clan on a fine evening such as this?”

  “I seek your counsel.”

  “Then I shall provide it alongside two foaming tankards. Sit.”

  A one armed man went to rise from the nearest table to make room but Jock shook his head. “You remain where you are, Harry. Any man who can slay six wolves and live to tell the tale deserves both his seat and his drink. I shall take the table over by the window.”

  Harry nodded and returned to his ale. Jock made his way across the room to the window.

  Lachlan returned from the kitchen a minute later with two tankards which he set down on their table.

  “It’s a woman, isn’t it?” Lachlan said.

  “What makes you say that?”

  Lachlan shrugged. “It’s always a woman when men seek my counsel. I’m glad you’ve sought me out though. I was on my way to come and speak with you.”

  “Via the gaming pit?”

  “Nothing wrong with teaching the youngsters we cronies can still play a game or two.” He lowered his voice. “Tongues are growing looser. Robin’s been letting his mouth off a little too loudly about the missing money.”

  Jock swore under his breath. “He’s supposed to be investigating things quietly.”

  “He’s threatened a few of the servants, told them to fess up or he’ll have them thrown in the dungeon.”

  “Good God.”

  “Aye, he’s not exactly subtle. He’ll find out nothing of use that way. I, on the other hand, have been making a few enquiries of my own.”

  “And?”

  “Buried in the bowels of the muniments room is something you should see for yourself.”

  “Tell me. Enough with these riddles.”

  “Your father’s signature is upon a deed of assignation. Dated only six months ago.”

  “I dinnae believe you.”

  “I told you, you need to see it for yourself.”

  “To whom is it assigned?” Jock’s fists began to clench under the table. “Who’s conned my father in his dotage?”

  “Robin.”

  Jock shook his head. “There must be some mistake.”

  Lachlan put his tankard down, leaning over the table. “It’s there in black and white. Robin has the legal rights to decide what happens to the entire clan fortune.”

  “But my father is not in his right mind. He must not have known what he was signing. Not only that but he is no longer laird. His name is not enough in the eyes of the law.”

  “It gets worse. Your signature is there beside his.”

  “I have signed no document of that sort.”

  “I thought you might say that. You ken what I’m going to say, don’t you?”

  “A forgery.”

  “Aye, that and you’re going to have to speak to your father. Make sure he hasn’t willingly signed away the clan’s fortune.”

  Jock picked up his tankard and drained it in one go. As the ale flowed down his throat, he had a sudden urge to spit it onto the floor, the taste no better than ashes.

  “What is Robin playing at?” he asked.

  “Perhaps your father can answer that.”

  Jock did not like the idea of having to ask his father about anything. Each conversation had been worse than the last for months. For a year his mind had been fading, his body weakening as his wife faded beside him.

  It was hard to see the man who once ruled the clan with such strength marching slowly toward death. He would need to word his questions very carefully. The last thing the old man needed was more stress.

  “Any word on where the money’s gone?” Jock asked, setting his empty tankard down on the table.

  “I am still looking into that. Speak to your father as soon as you can and find out what’s going on. I shall continue my search in the meantime.” He stretched his arms into the air above him, yawning loudly. “Now the night draws on and my watch is soon. Let us talk of lighter things for a moment. Who is this woman I hear has caught the eye of the laird?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Robin and his loose tongue. Come on, who is she?”

  Jock folded his arms across his chest. “It matters not beside such dark intrigue.”

  “Come, come. You have never shown a hint of interest in women before now. She must be pretty special. A princess perhaps? Daughter of a Norseman? An Englishman? No? Good God, then who is she?”

  Jock managed a laugh. “Maybe a witch.”

  “Dinnae tell me you’ve fallen in love with a witch.”

  “I didnae say I was in love.” He brought the key out of his pocket and slid it across the table. “This mean anything to you?”

  Lachlan looked surprised for a moment but then his face vanished behind his tankard. “Your father spoke of something like this once, many years ago. Where did you get this?”

  “A girl brought it to my room. Said it was for me.”

  Lachlan turned the key over in his hand before passing it back. “In my day when a woman wished for the favor of a gentleman and could not say so out loud, she would instead give him such a thing. The key to her heart, they used to call it. He would either unlock her heart and keep the key or he would hand it back and send her on her way. Which will you do?”

  “That tradition is long gone, as you ken. It belongs to another time.”

  “Perhaps she is from that time. There is something else though, I see it in your eyes. What is it?”

  “I fear she may be possessed.” He lowered his voice to a bare whisper. “By a demon.” He brought out the pen and passed it across the table. “Have you ever seen anything like that before?”

  “Never. Where did you find this?”

  “I took it from her. She called it a pen.”

  “Get it out of sight before anyone sees.”

  Jock looked around. At once several faces turned away, all staring intently at their drinks. He pocketed the pen once more. “If she returns to me, I fear I may not be able to resist her.”

  “Then do not see her again. What does she look like?”

  “Slim, short, innocent looking. Unmarked skin. Dark brown hair, long.”

  “You mean you saw it uncovered?” Lachlan raised his eyebrows. “No coif?”

  Jock knew what his friend was suggesting. “She is not one of them.”

  “The only women I ken with uncovered hair would take money from men for-”

  Jock bristled. “I said she is not that sort of woman.”

  “Just the ordinary possessed sort who hands silver keys and mag
ic pens to lairds?”

  “You mock me.”

  Lachlan stood up. “Never. Alas, I must away to my watch. You, my good friend, should watch yourself. Have you thought that she may have been sent to distract you while your coffers were further raided?”

  “There is nothing else left to take.”

  “There is always something more to lose.”

  “That is as may be.”

  “You will find out the truth soon enough.” Lachlan handed him the key. “Keep that safe.”

  “Aye.”

  “I shall away to my post in the chill night air guarding your people. You return to that lovely warm fireside in your bedchamber. Think of me freezing my arse off while you sleep.”

  Jock laughed, slapping the old man on the back before heading out of the tavern. He returned through the gate, heading back to the keep.

  So there was a document that gave Robin the legal rights to the clan’s money? His signature was upon it. What did that mean?

  He could only wait and see what Lachlan dug up. In the meantime, he would try and work out the best way to raise the issue with his father. He would not spend the night thinking about Daisy.

  He kept his vow until he climbed into bed a short time later, his eyes settling on the box she’d brought him, the key under his pillow.

  He went to sleep thinking of her.

  Chapter Five

  If Daisy had known the type of hospital she’d have ended up in, she never would have gone anywhere near the box.

  It was Tuesday morning and she was still trying to get Jock MacGregor out of her mind. He’d accompanied her wherever she went since she got back from his castle.

  She had nearly driven herself mad trying not to think about him. What had he said that was niggling at her? She went to sleep wondering.

  She woke up at three o’clock on Tuesday morning with the answer. She sat bolt upright in the darkness, the only sound that of the humming refrigerator downstairs.

  He’d said she’d only been gone a couple of hours. How had she not noticed that at the time?

  She already knew the answer to that one. She’d been too busy trying not to melt into a puddle at the sight of him looming over her, fury etched into his face as he glared at her for the second time in a week.