And yet, she found herself wanting to tell Greyson. She wanted to trust him, and although her father would call her foolish, she trusted the impulse.
“My betrothed waits for me in Pittillock.”
She did not miss his look of disappointment. If only this man knew how very much she wished to be free from the arrangement.
“If I return to my father, he will be wroth with me for breaking our agreement.”
Greyson shifted his weight against the tall oak.
“He’ll be mad at you for being attacked?”
She did not hesitate. “Aye. I was to be married by midmonth. So you see, either way I will not be at Pittillock as per my father’s arrangement with the Earl of Fife.”
Greyson scowled, his eyes flashing.
“Are you kidding me? You were attacked, for God’s sakes. How is that your fault?”
He did speak so strangely, but she found she quite liked his bluntness. Too few people spoke their minds openly.
“It is my understanding the Earl of Fife is neither a kind nor understanding man. Very much like the son, Duncan, who I am to marry. The reason will matter naught. They will demand a higher dowry, which my father will gladly pay to bring about this union. But he will be angered either way.”
With every word she said, Greyson looked angrier, his hands clenched into fists, his mouth as flat as a blade. Although she was grateful he was upset on her behalf, she didn’t understand it. These matters were hardly unusual. She’d even heard tales of women being kidnapped to delay or alter a marriage agreement.
“You haven’t met him?”
Marian attempted to smooth out the front of her gown. Without proper lying time, it was wrinkled beyond repair. Silly that she should care about such a thing, but it made her feel better, presenting herself well.
“Nay. I have not.”
“Do you want to marry him?”
What a funny question.
“Again, that familiarity,” she said with a small smile. “As if we’ve known each other forever.” She wished she could tell him how much she liked it, but that would never do. Whether she wanted to marry the man or not, she had no choice. Her father’s will was the only one that mattered.
He reached her in three strides. “Do you want to marry him?” he pressed.
Marian’s breath caught at his tone. “I . . .” How could she answer such a question? “It is my duty to forge this alliance.”
“What will happen if you go back to Fenwall?”
Marian imagined the reception she would receive. “Father will yell, of course.” She smiled. “But I would be sure to stand well away from his spittle.”
“How can you joke?” He cut off whatever he’d been about to say, shaking his head. “And his men? What will he say of his men?”
She’d wondered about that as well. “He will likely attempt to learn more about the attack.”
He stood much too close, his eyes holding hers, beseeching her to continue.
“The remainder of my dowry is in that second trunk we carry. ’Twas possible the reivers who attacked us knew of its value and planned to rob us. Or mayhap they thought to kidnap me. Father will want to know if it was planned.”
“But the reivers are all dead.”
Marian shrugged, attempting to appear casual despite his closeness.
“Certainly, there are more of them. Their families still live. The reivers’ strength is in their bonds to each other and their knowledge of the terrain.”
“Family,” he muttered. And it was there again, that sadness she’d glimpsed in him every so often. When he’d told her the news about James, about her men, she’d seen grief in his eyes. He understood, because he’d lost people too.
“Stay with us.”
Marian blinked.
“Stay with us. Come to Quinting. And then we’ll take you to Pittillock.”
In truth, it was the same conclusion she’d reached. If she went home, her father would merely send her back. She might as well continue. Besides which, she’d be with Greyson. Although it could not lead anywhere, she wished to spend as much time with him as she could.
“Very well.”
The glint of surprise in his eyes told her she’d not negotiated very well. He hadn’t expected her immediate agreement. So Marian quickly added, “If you will tell me where you come from.”
More surprise, and then the corners of his mouth lifted to reveal straight white teeth and a most wicked grin. “You drive a hard bargain, Lady Marian.”
“Marian,” she blurted before thinking. “You may call me Marian.”
“I get the feeling I should be honored.”
He did not say it sarcastically, but as if he were genuinely curious, and so she gave him a serious answer. “None but my father calls me such.” She paused, then added, “Not even my maid who raised me like a mother.”
He looked shocked, mayhap even humbled. “But you offer it to me?”
“Aye, so you may choose to be honored, if it pleases you. But I hope it will also please you to tell me, where are you from that strangers address each other as relatives?”
He didn’t answer at first. That tic in his jaw was back, and she could tell he was considering her request.
“Do not run,” he finally said. “Or scream. Or think I’m completely crazy.”
“Crazy?”
“Never mind. Please just listen to me. I’m going to tell you something I shouldn’t. But I want you to know you can trust me.”
She thought of the way he’d called for her in that wood, his voice frantic as he spoke her given name.
“I already do.”
Marian could actually hear him breathing. She waited, wondering. Curious now . . .
“I am from . . .” Greyson swallowed, appearing nervous for the first time since they’d met. “I am from the future.”
9
Yeah, he probably shouldn’t have led with that.
Go with your gut.
So much of what he’d learned about business, and life, had come from his father and even Rhys, but that particular tenet had been his mother’s. Before she’d disappeared, leaving behind the misconception that she’d purposefully abandoned their family, Greyson had thought his mother could do no wrong. Although he was relieved to know he’d been right about her, that she hadn’t left them, he really shouldn’t have pulled up that piece of advice just now. Because judging from the look on Maid Marian’s face, she wasn’t having it.
She most definitely thought him mad, as they would say in this time.
“Please don’t run.”
Greyson grabbed her wrist, aware their names were being called in the clearing. He’d come down to get her, not spill the beans on his very sordid tale. His uncle would be furious if he found out. But Greyson wanted to know Marian, and for her to know him, and it had felt natural to tell her.
“We have to go back soon, but please just listen to me. It sounds bonkers. I know. But my aunt, Ross’s sister, knows spells.”
“Ross MacKinnish is your uncle?”
Greyson had to give her credit. Although she still looked dubious, she hadn’t attempted to pull away. The hand on her wrist was unnecessary, although he kept it there because he liked the feel of it. She actually seemed intrigued. Not scared.
“He is. And my mother and brother are here too. My mother is from here, from Castle Hightower in Perthshire, and somehow her sister sent her through time, to the future. But she was pulled back five years ago. We thought she’d left us. But then my father got sick and . . .” He grabbed the back of his neck, letting her go. “And we went through his study. Apparently he hadn’t gone craz—mad, after all. He’d been right all along. There was this spell”—aware he was losing her, he spoke more quickly—“and a book, with some missing information, I guess. But my brother, Rhys, he knows Gaelic. I don’t know what he did to solve the puzzle, but . . .”
Marian’s eyes narrowed as she took a step away from him, shaking her wrist free. Of cours
e she didn’t believe him. He hadn’t believed his own father, after all.
Pulling out his phone, which couldn’t have much of a charge left, Greyson pressed the button to turn it on. When the screen lit up, Marian looked absolutely terrified. And no wonder—it had to look like witchcraft. But it was the only way he could convince her to listen.
“What . . . what is that?”
He really shouldn’t have told her.
“A cell phone. You can use it to talk to people from far away. And look, these are pictures. Like drawings but . . . watch.”
He stepped back, snapped a picture, and then held the phone out to her.
“See? It’s you.”
Her eyes went huge.
The calls became shouts. “We really have to go.” Greyson turned the phone off. “I’m aware that I sound like a raving lunatic, but I can assure you I’m not. I co-own a shipping company with my brothers. We’re actually . . .”
Billionaires. Well respected in the community, or at least they had been. If the reporters had been descending on the mansion before he’d left, surely they’d be even more eager for a story now. For all he knew, all of the McCaim siblings could have disappeared. Reikart or Ian could even be here by now. They’d promised that anyone left behind would keep trying to join the others.
But none of that mattered to this beautiful woman whose father would blame her for being attacked. Who’d been betrothed to a cruel man she’d never even met.
To her, he was a complete and utter loon.
“Marian . . .” Using a woman’s first name had never seemed so intimate before. “Please believe that I am of sound mind and body. It sounds crazy, but I am telling the truth. I’ve been in your century for exactly two days. And trust me, it’s been more of an adjustment than a New Orleans boy learning how to deal with snow.”
He started walking and, thankfully, she fell in step beside him.
“My century?”
Greyson supposed he should be happy. Marian was humoring him. Although she clearly didn’t believe him, she didn’t appear to be freaked out enough to go running for the hills. It was a start. “I’m from the twenty-first century.”
She actually giggled. A delightful, fun sound that immediately lifted his mood. When they got back to the others, Ross scowled at him—I gave you one job—but not even his Viking uncle’s wrath could dampen his mood.
“You did ask,” Greyson said to her in an undertone. Aware they were within earshot of the others now, he refrained from saying much more.
“Aye,” she agreed. “I suppose I did. Tell me more of this phone.”
Though she didn’t quite believe him, Marian also was having difficulty reconciling his cell with her world. Which was exactly what he’d hoped for.
“Most people have them. You can speak to people around the world. Look up facts and take pictures. I didn’t think I could live without it.” But obviously he was doing just that.
“Lady Marian, a word, if you please?” Ross said, his voice a deep rumble.
He accompanied her to his uncle, who was tightening a leather strap on his horse’s saddle.
“Have you made a decision regarding your destination? If we are to go to Fenwall—”
“I will accompany you to Quinting Castle if you should be kind enough to escort me to Pittillock once your business in England is complete.”
Ross looked back and forth between them. “And your father?”
“I will send a missive to him from Quinting. And to my betrothed as well.”
Greyson didn’t flinch. He watched his uncle closely, realizing he’d already known about her circumstances. Ross had intuited she’d been traveling north to be married.
“You will, of course, be paid handsomely for your efforts.”
Ross glanced over to the packhorse then. Specifically, to one of Marian’s two trunks.
“Keep the rest of your dowry. No payment is needed. Your man . . .”
“Sir James. Fenwall’s marshal.”
Ross nodded. “Sir James provided us with much-needed information on the current state of Quinting Castle and its guests. We repay his kindness by offering you safe passage.”
“It seems you’ve repaid his kindness already by keeping me alive.” She looked at him then.
But Greyson hadn’t played the part of a hero. Not really. He’d never admit it, especially not to his brothers, if he ever saw them again, but the battle had terrified him. It was nothing like the movies. The sound of metal clashing against metal, accompanied by men’s shouts of pain, of death—it was something he never wanted to hear again. The violence of it had made the epic bar fight that had earned Ian a night in jail look like a children’s Saturday-morning cartoon by comparison.
If his bow hadn’t been already readied, he would have been completely useless. As it was, Greyson had needed to dismount before he took the first shot. Mounted archery had never really been his thing.
No, he would not take credit for something the other men had done. “You can thank Clan MacKinnish for that.” He nodded toward Ross. “They did not hesitate.”
Marian curtsied as if she’d been doing it her entire life. Which, of course, she had.
“’Tis settled, then.” With that, Marian strode to her horse as calmly as if she hadn’t just seen a cell phone and been informed one of her travel partners was from the future.
Who is this woman?
Watching her walk away, Greyson found himself thinking of his ex-girlfriend. They looked nothing alike, Marian as blonde and refined as Lisa was dark and brash. Their personalities were night and day too. The drama with his father’s strange illness, which apparently hadn’t been an illness after all, had driven Lisa off. She’d said it made things too real. He suspected Marian would have been able to handle that, and much, much more. This woman could handle just about anything, it seemed.
Realizing Ross was looking at him, Greyson cleared his throat.
“How did you know she was engaged?”
In response, his uncle crossed his arms as he tended to do when he was unhappy with something Greyson had said. It happened a lot.
“Betrothed,” he corrected, belatedly remembering his uncle’s warning about standing out. He’d blown that one, all right.
“There are very few reasons why an earl’s daughter would venture across the border with so many men and two trunks, one of which is too heavy to contain anything other than gold.”
It seemed he had a lot to learn.
Not wanting to talk about Marian, specifically about her betrothed . . . oh, and the fact that he’d revealed his secret to her, Greyson changed the subject.
“Do you really think we’ll learn anything about Shona at . . .” What was the name of it? “Quinting Castle?”
At least he’d remembered not to call her Mom. Greyson smiled, maybe a bit too smugly for Ross’s liking. Admittedly, it wasn’t a stunning success.
“If Irvine’s as well-placed as Grace says, then he’s wealthy enough to be known to the kind of people who frequent the king’s Northumbrian court. It’s taken some time to find him, but some place him currently at Quinting, a popular destination for hunting this time of year.”
Greyson had no choice but to pretend he understood half of what his uncle had just said. Before he could respond, Ross yelled, “Ride out.” Without another word, he stalked to his horse, pulling himself up as easily as if he weren’t six-foot-something and two-hundred-plus pounds. The Saints’ defense could use someone like him. Although Ross would just as soon cut his way through the opposing team as he would tackle them.
The man was an animal.
A memory from the battle was burned into his brain—his uncle standing with that giant sword raised high overhead. Greyson had watched in mingled awe and horror as he brought that sword down on one of the reivers. By then Greyson had let more than half of the arrows he carried fly. Miraculously, he’d managed to fell a man. He’d never doubted his ability to aim and shoot. But with a longbow like th
e one slung across his saddle? And in the middle of the bloodiest fight he’d ever witnessed?
His archery coach would be proud.
Hell, his mother would be proud. She’d loved coming to his matches. Didn’t matter where it was, his mother, if not both of his parents, would fly in to his match, take him and his friend to dinner, and fly back to New Orleans.
One of the benefits of having more money than God, as Ian would say.
Money that hadn’t done shit for them in the end. His mom had still gone missing. His dad had fallen into a coma. Now his mother and his brother were both somewhere in medieval Scotland, and looking for them without the internet or any modern technology felt a whole lot like sifting through hay for a needle.
Although he’d wanted his brothers to join him—he’d thought it best for them to stay together—the past days had changed his mind. Life here was brutal, and one or both of them could die if they followed him.
Stay there. Please, stay.
He repeated it over and over again in his mind as he mounted his horse. Of course, he knew Reikart and Ian couldn’t hear him. They were probably saying that damn chant even now, still trying to get it right.
With any luck, and his family didn’t seem to have much of it, they wouldn’t figure it out. They would stay safe in New Orleans, look after their father and the business. And live.
Without knowing where all of us are. If we’re dead or alive.
It was no way to live, and Greyson knew it. Every day for the past five years he’d tried, unsuccessfully, to move on. To forget that their mother had left them. To push away the niggling doubt that his father might not be crazy after all, that his mother was really in trouble.
It hadn’t worked for him, and it sure as hell wouldn’t work for his brothers.
Sexy Scot (Highlander's Through Time Book 2) Page 5