Sexy Scot (Highlander's Through Time Book 2)

by Cecelia Mecca

  She didn’t need to explain herself further. He knew what she meant as well as she did. It was one of the few things she possessed that had belonged to the mother who had died giving birth to her.

  “I placed it next to my bed so I would remember it.”

  Marian ignored the men’s laughter. Everyone from Fenwall knew of her forgetfulness. Nearly every day she forgot something, or someone—just the day before, she attempted to leave the keep without a mantle.

  “We must go back.”

  But she knew from James’s expression, though he uttered not a word, they would not be going back. Her father would rage if they did.

  For the first time that day, she allowed her anger and resentment and fear to surface. She hated for the men to see her upset. But if she could have chosen one thing to take to Scotland, other than her beloved maid, it would have been her mother’s chain.

  Appropriate, she supposed, casting her gaze up to the others, that it would be left behind.

  3

  The chanting hadn’t worked. Although the cross had continued to pulse cold into their hands, nothing had happened. They’d stood around looking stupid for a minute, then tried three times more. Still nothing. They’d taken tequila shots and proceeded to comb through the debris in their father’s office, hoping to find something revelatory. A few days later, they were still looking. They’d fallen into a new routine: spending their days covering for Rhys and running the company, their nights attempting to crack the code.

  In the moments in between, they went to see their father in shifts. Grey was just returning from one such visit now: their dad didn’t seem any better, but he didn’t seem any worse either. He could still wake up from the coma, or so the doctors said.

  A text from Ian dinged on his phone.

  Go around back. Reporters.

  Grey cursed under his breath. It had only been a matter of time before the reporters found out about their father.

  “Around the back,” he told his driver. “Reporters.” Although he’d always resisted having a driver, he’d been serving as the fill-in CEO in his brother’s absence. A driver was a must. His mind would have been on overdrive even without the added stress of the time travel debacle. Being second-born was a bitch, especially with an older brother who was basically God, at least in the eyes of their father. And the shareholders. And who was he kidding? Everyone saw Rhys that way, Greyson included. And he wouldn’t rest until he got his brother back.

  Before the car had even stopped at the back entrance of the mansion, he was up and out. He made his way through the door, hurrying to his father’s study. The rest of the house was pristine. Deep hardwood contrasted with white walls and pillars, including the one on which Ian had once drawn his name in pink chalk. Greyson would have smiled at the memory if his life, their lives, hadn’t gone completely to shit four days ago.

  “Finally,” Reikart muttered as he entered the study.

  Ian had already poured out a round of tequila shots, part of the nightly ritual they’d established. In his little brother’s eyes, it would be bad luck not to continue it—he’d always been the most superstitious of the four of them, which made it surprising he was the only one still fighting the truth. Reikart had accepted it as he did everything, with an easy air, but Greyson suspected a storm brewed under the mask his brother showed the world. Downing his shot, Greyson looked at the black leather book in Ian’s hands.

  “Anything new?”

  According to his father’s notes, that book, some kind of ancient Scottish spellbook, was the key to unraveling the mystery of time travel. From what their mother had told him, her sister, Grace, had accidentally sent her from thirteenth-century Scotland, at some place called Castle Kinghorn, to New Orleans. Mom had come through more than thirty-five years ago, when she was just twenty-one. But Dad had never gotten the chant to work for him, and although they’d seen Rhys disappear, they couldn’t get it to work for them either. Ian, although still skeptical, had suggested it might have something to do with the wording, but unfortunately only one of them had learned Gaelic. And that someone had disappeared before their eyes four nights ago, here, in this very spot. They’d tried looking up pronunciations on Google, but it hadn’t helped. If anything, it had made them worse.

  “I wish I hadn’t chosen archery,” he muttered. “Damned useless.” Their mother had insisted each of the boys learn something from her homeland—leave it to Rhys to choose the hardest skill to master.

  Reikart poured a second shot for himself and downed it before collecting their glasses. The storm surge must be growing.

  “Nothing new,” Ian finally responded. “Unless you count the new regulation for filing Sea Cargo Manifest in India. I’m starting to think this book’s as useless as your bows and arrows.”

  Ian shot his brother a look, but the unrepentant bastard just shrugged his shoulders. He could be a smart-ass for sure, but Ian could recite shipping regulations in his sleep.

  “We need to get him back.” Reikart stared at the cross, which they’d set on the desk. “First Dad. Now this. That leaves only three of us and too much work.” He jerked a hand through his hair and added, “McCaim can only hold out for so long.” What he didn’t say—but what Greyson heard—was, We can only hold out for so long.

  “Keeping the business afloat is the least of our concerns,” Greyson said, reaching for the cross. But even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t quite true. Finding out what the hell had happened to their mother and Rhys, getting their father to wake up from his terrifying slumber, and fending off jittery shareholders . . . all of it was their concern.

  Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

  Quoting Shakespeare was another useless skill. Maybe instead of minoring in British literature he should have taken some courses in time travel and other impossible ventures.

  “Let’s do it,” he said, glancing at each of his brothers in turn. Cold was rolling through him from his grip on the cross.

  He ignored Ian’s eye roll—the boy had popped out of their mother’s womb rolling his eyes at all three of them. But not at Mom. She’d have given him the ass-whooping he deserved just for attempting it.

  With a quick glance at the maps next to his brother’s note, the ones they’d been studying for the past four days—one of Perthshire, Scotland, their mother’s homeland, and another depicting the border between England and Scotland—he nodded for them to begin.

  At least now they knew what they were saying. Earth, air, fire, water, return him home.

  “Talamh, èadhar, teine, usige ga thilleadh dhachaigh.”

  Nothing.

  “Talamh, èadhar, teine, usige ga thilleadh dhachaigh,” they said in unison again.

  Something clicked in Greyson’s head, and a voice whispered in his ear: Say it like Rhys.

  As if a video were playing in his head, Greyson saw and heard Rhys say the words, and he chanted with him.

  “Talamh, èadhar, teine, usige ga thilleadh dhachaigh.”

  It was as if lightning had struck the cross, jolting it away from his hands. Everything went black. Greyson couldn’t see a thing except for a single bright light, but it felt like he was floating above his body, like he imagined happened when someone died. He could smell stale beer and hay, and loud, incomprehensible voices rang in his ears. A boot nudged his ribs, soft at first but then harder. He wanted to lash out but couldn’t move any part of his body. Except his heart. It pounded in his chest and in his ears, the sound competing with the shouts. One in particular stood out.

  The words finally registered: “Get outta the way.”

  Another kick.

  This time, Greyson was able to push away the boot that kicked at his side.

  “Ye’re blockin’ the door.”

  He swallowed, his throat on fire from the effort, and managed to push up on all fours. Shook his head in an attempt to clear it.

  “What in the name of the king is he wearing?”

  They were talking about him. A yo
ung girl with curly brown hair and a cherublike face stared at him. Specifically, at the scar on his right jaw courtesy of an archery mishap in college. Blinking, Greyson opened his eyes and looked straight into another face, one of a fearsome-looking Viking. He’d always been fascinated by the Vikings, and this guy looked like he’d literally stepped out of a documentary. Wearing a mixture of leather and plated armor, a freaking massive sword hanging by his side, he was a behemoth of a man. And most definitely not from his time.

  His time. As in, a different time than this one.

  With his wits finally returning, he looked around the room frantically. No sign of his younger brothers.

  “A reiver?” someone asked.

  “Nay,” another answered.

  A crowd began to gather, which was the exact opposite of what he needed right now. Greyson scrambled to his feet and made his way to the door. He opened it, and the sunlight blinded him, the darkness of the bar, or tavern, or whatever, not preparing him for the fact that it was the middle of the day. Looking up to the creaking above him, he saw a wooden sign swaying back and forth. No words, just two images: a rabbit and a cross.

  “Ye’re a poor sight, lad.”

  The man who’d kicked him had apparently followed him outside.

  Greyson had spent the last few sleepless nights imagining what would happen if it actually worked, if he and his brothers managed to transport themselves back through time. What would it feel like? Would he survive the journey? How would he acclimate? How would he find his way around?

  But not one of those considerations had prepared him for the reality of waking up in what was apparently medieval Scotland. And none of the feeble excuses he’d come up with seemed viable now that he was staring down a real-life frigging warrior.

  “I . . .” What the hell could he possibly say? “Where am I?”

  At least he hadn’t asked, What year is this? He’d promised himself not to do that. It was a sure ticket to crazy town, and if Greyson knew anything about this time period, which was admittedly limited to what he’d learned in the past few days, it was that they didn’t deal well with mental illness. And they’d presume the worst of him if he spoke even a portion of his new truth.

  The Viking didn’t answer.

  Greyson realized the man wasn’t actually a Viking, but from his attire to his long, dirty-blond hair pulled back with a leather strap and bushy, blond-brown beard, he very much looked the part.

  “Ross.” Another Viking stumbled out the door. Nay, this one looked less like a Viking and more like a medieval cosplayer. “Who the hell is he?”

  Receiving no immediate response, the drunken cosplayer quickly lost interest and staggered away.

  “Come with me,” the first man, Ross, said.

  As if Greyson had a choice. Ross grabbed him by the arm with a viselike grip that put Ian’s wrestling moves to shame. And Ian, despite being the baby of the family, was no shrinking violet. Neither was he, a fact that hardly seemed to matter at the moment.

  “From where do you hail?” Ross asked.

  Although the shutters were closed, they could still hear the interested shouts and murmurs from inside the tavern.

  The truth would not do. Greyson had to think of something to say, preferably sooner rather than later.

  “You’ve a strange accent,” the man continued.

  This he knew for certain, but he had no real answer for it. “I’m Scottish,” he said truthfully.

  The Viking’s laugh caught him off guard.

  “You’re no more Scotsman than the Cony and Cross’s innkeeper.”

  Was that supposed to make any sense?

  “Both my parents are Scottish,” he said lamely, the whole time-traveling thing scrambling his brain.

  Think, Greyson. Think.

  “Shona MacKinnish—”

  The words barely left his mouth before Ross the Viking grabbed his tie, using it to haul him forward. He handled him as if Greyson weren’t just over six feet, his frame no less honed than Rhys’s, thanks to punishing hours at the gym.

  “You’re acquainted with Shona MacKinnish?”

  Good. If the Viking knew his mother, perhaps he also knew where to find her.

  “She’s my mother.”

  A murderous expression crossed the man’s face. But Greyson had not survived being hurled through time straight into the Middle Ages just so his skull could be crushed by this big brute of a man. No way was he giving the Viking time to go for that sword. Not before he found his mother and brother.

  Grabbing the big man’s wrist, Greyson twisted, the howl of pain a welcome sound to his ears.

  “Kick me or touch me again. I dare you.” He pushed the Viking away with a hard enough shove that his back bounced off the front wall of the tavern.

  Ross reached for his sword.

  “I don’t think so.”

  This time, it was his hands that wrapped around the Viking’s neck. Adrenaline coursed through him. It was the only possible explanation for how easily he was holding the much larger man at bay. If only he’d thought to bring a weapon . . . or wear something less conspicuous than a suit. Ian had even joked about it, asking if they should dress the part before attempting to time-travel again. Unfortunately, deep down, none of them had really thought it would work. Reikart had admitted as much the day before.

  “I mean Shona MacKinnish no harm,” Greyson conceded.

  When the Viking loosened himself from Greyson’s grasp, he proved that an ironfisted punch to the gut felt about the same in the thirteenth century as it did in the twenty-first. Thankfully, he’d sparred enough with Rhys, who’d taken up boxing as well as Gaelic, to shrug it off easily enough. Jumping back to his feet, prepared to take or make another punch, he was stopped by the sound of steel.

  The Viking had pulled out his sword much more quickly than Greyson would have expected for a man that size. For a sword that size.

  Fantastic.

  An undershirt, shirt, and tie wouldn’t do anything to shield his chest from the tip of the massive sword resting just over his heart.

  “Who are you?” Ross said on a growl.

  Hearing his mother’s name had clearly pissed this guy off. But he had nothing to offer him but the truth. Or part of it, at least.

  “My name is Greyson McCaim.” While in the Middle Ages, might as well talk like someone in the Middle Ages—or try. His frame of reference wasn’t much larger than a few TV shows he’d watched. “Son of Colin McCaim and Shona MacKinnish.” He was pretty sure the sword had just punctured his flesh.

  Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined dying this way. Caught in the crosshairs of a gunman in the Quarter while out carousing with his drunken brothers? Maybe. But not like this.

  “And I can prove it,” he blurted.

  His plan was risky. Beyond risky. Given the medieval fear of witchcraft, he was just as likely to be killed for showing the Viking his cellphone as he was for identifying himself as Shona’s son. But he was running out of options.

  “I’m waiting,” the Viking grumbled, clearly comfortable with his position of power.

  “I’m going to grab something in my pocket. It’s just a . . .”

  A what? Cellphone? Picture? Jesus.

  “A small black box with a drawing inside. A drawing of my mother. Of Shona.”

  Thank you, Reikart.

  At least one of them had had the presence of mind to insist they all take pictures. Lots of them. Of the maps. Of their mother’s note. Of every damn thing in their father’s study.

  Slowly, carefully, he pulled the phone out of his pocket. In a moment of sheer panic, Greyson realized it might not even work. Who knew what time travel did to a cell battery? But when he pressed the button, the phone glowed to life and the Viking nearly dropped his damn sword.

  If only.

  Ross stared at the screen in shock, clearly afraid of the device. Reaching below the sharp edge of the sword, Greyson swiped frantically, his heart beating almost as heavily as
when he’d first found himself on the tavern floor.

  “Here,” he said. “My mother.”

  He turned the phone around, showing the brute the youngest picture of his mom they could find in the study. Watching his eyes widen, Greyson went in for the kill.

  “And this is a note she wrote. In her own handwriting. I took a picture of it before . . .”

  His eyes caught the Viking’s. Ice blue. Like his mother’s.

  “A . . .”

  “Picture. Like a drawing. See, she wrote this note.”

  One minute, the sword pressed against his chest. The next, it dropped, the Viking snatching the phone from his hand.

  “You can swipe. Like this.”

  Back and forth, he showed him the image and the note, careful not to go the wrong way. Lord knew what the next pictures were.

  “Shona.”

  His voice, barely a whisper, held something Greyson had missed earlier. This man didn’t just know his mother. He knew her well. Was he . . . ?

  “’Tis my sister. That . . . drawing . . . is of my sister.”

  Greyson’s mouth dropped open.

  The Viking looked up, his head shaking in disbelief. “God’s nails, Grace, you really did it.”

  Grace. Was that . . . was he talking about his aunt? The one he’d only learned about this week. The one who was apparently responsible for his mother’s trip through time. So much for his mom being an orphan. But this finally explained her Scottish accent.

  “Where are you from?” the Viking asked, although his tone was more civil.

  “I . . .”

  He still had no answers to give. New Orleans would mean nothing to this man.

  “You’re from the future?”

  The Viking shoved Greyson’s phone back at him before he could answer. Before he could even shut his gaping mouth. “Put it away. Never show it to anyone else. Do you understand?”

  Greyson did as he was told, and quite happily. Because the Viking, apparently also his uncle, no longer seemed inclined to kill him.