Ross ran a hand through his hair, hiding his exasperation a little better this time.
“I’ve barely tempered Bruce, who nearly undid the good work of our envoy to King Edward’s regent. His ambitions and hatred of Balliol threaten our stability, but thankfully he listened to reason. And now you must do the same.”
Greyson appreciated the effort his uncle was making to explain the situation. He could tell temperance was unnatural for him. But it would do the man no good. He would not forsake Marian.
“Lady Marian is nae just any woman. She is the daughter of an earl who has the ear of the king. One who deemed an alliance with the Earl of Fife worthy of his daughter. I’ll remind you, the earl is one of the Guardians. The one most supportive of Bruce’s claim. When they discover who was responsible for failing to deliver the lady to her betrothed, it will not bode well for relations between our clan and the Bruce.”
He didn’t mince words at least.
“You must take her to her betrothed.”
He didn’t hesitate. “I will not.”
Ross growled. “Then I will do it.”
“No, you will not.”
No one had ever accused Greyson of being a shrinking flower.
Ross’s eyes widened at the insubordination, but before he could fly into a rage, Greyson hastened to speak. “The Maid of Norway will not rule Scotland. Neither will Balliol or Bruce. After a bloody intervention by the English king that we’ll call the Scottish Wars of Independence, Bruce’s grandson will rule. But the cost will be high, and I fear for our clan.”
That he said our clan was likely the only reason Ross hadn’t gone off on him yet. But it was true. These were his mothers’ relatives, and his, and Greyson felt nearly as responsible for them as he did his mother and brother.
“I didn’t plan to tell you so bluntly, but that’s the truth of it. In the meantime, Marian doesn’t need to suffer unnecessarily for what will amount to a nonfactor in a much greater war.”
Ross, or the Viking, as he’d once thought of him, crossed his big hulking arms. Sometimes he wondered how this man could possibly be his mother’s brother, but one look at his determined eyes was all the reminder he needed.
“Will you tell that to both the earls, then? The marriage will not take place because”—he lowered his voice even though they were hidden—“you’re from the future, have seen the outcome, and their alliance matters not? Will you explain the situation to Bruce when he finds out Clan MacKinnish was responsible for angering his closest ally, the only one of the Guardians who supports his claim to the throne?”
“A throne now promised to the Maid of Norway.”
Ross’s brows furrowed.
“The baby Margaret,” he clarified.
“None, not even the Guardians who passed their message through me to England, believe she will rule. Much can happen between now and when she comes of age.”
Greyson struggled to remember why, precisely, she did not take the throne. He really should have paid better attention in history class, or at least to his mother’s tales. But that had been her thing with Rhys.
“So you position yourselves in the meantime?”
“Aye. And your clan’s position is by Bruce’s side. You will take her back. Or I will do it.”
“No one is taking Marian anywhere,” he countered.
Ross had apparently had enough of their conversation. “Lady Marian.”
He grunted and walked away, leaving Greyson to consider his next move.
Bottom line: he didn’t give a shit about customs or alliances or the fact that he was imposing his very twenty-first century ideals on a time and place he had no right to reside in. What mattered was Marian’s free will. And finding his mother and brother. He’d prefer to do it with Ross, but if his uncle proved stubborn, then they would have to part ways. How hard could it be to find Perthshire anyway?
21
“We’re lost.”
She should have gone with the MacKinnishes.
When Ross had come to her, telling her to prepare her things for the journey to her betrothed, she had done something foolish. Something that could very well cost both her and Grey their lives.
She’d gone to Grey instead, and he’d taken her away. They’d ridden off toward Perthshire alone, just the two of them. A horrible mistake given their current situation.
“We should go back,” she said, repeating the words she’d already said several times that afternoon.
“If Perthshire is north, as you say, we are not lost. We just haven’t arrived yet.”
“Nor will we arrive if that wheel is any indication.”
Nodding to the broken, abandoned wooden wheel by the side of the road as they rode past it, Marian waited for Grey’s reaction. They’d already ridden by that same wheel earlier in the day, but he shook off her concern.
“I could tell we veered too far east for a time. But we’re fine now.”
“Despite the fact that we’ve just ridden in a circle?”
“Aye.”
She laughed despite the very real possibility they would die on this road before ever reaching Perthshire. Marian had tried to tell Grey as much when he’d suggested his reckless plan. But he’d refused to listen to reason. If they stayed, he’d insisted, Marian would find herself on horseback before day’s end, on her way once again to Duncan.
But perhaps that would have been the wiser course. On the ride north, Grey had told her everything Ross had said to him. While she knew her father desperately wanted the alliance with the Earl of Fife, she had not realized that same earl was Bruce’s strongest ally among the Guardians. The one who would, when and if the time came, back Bruce in a claim for the Scottish crown.
By agreeing to stay with Grey, she’d put his clan in real danger of incurring Bruce’s wrath. And if Irvine’s friend was to be believed, King Edward had been complicit in Alexander’s murder, which made him their enemy too. He’d mentioned a baron, too, but had named no names.
Which was why she’d spent the day attempting to convince Grey to return to Hallstead Manor. But he refused to waver, insisting all would be well, and that his Boy Scout skills, whatever that meant, would eventually steer them in the right direction. And perhaps he wasn’t wrong. As night began to fall, a light appeared in the distance.
Grey squinted at the buildings they approached. “An inn? In the middle of nowhere? Is that normal?”
Marian could see the truth of his words. It was indeed an inn, though by the size of it, finding available rooms might prove tricky. She sincerely hoped there was space. Grey had not seemed concerned by the possibility of making camp, as he called it, but she was still unsure what his time backpacking and staying in plenty of lean-tos meant, exactly. The arrangement was simple, just two buildings in a partial clearing not far from the road. A bubbling sound indicated the inn was perched just along a stream, maybe a river. Earlier that day they’d started following one, the reason Grey was so confident in the direction they traveled. Was this that same river?
As they got closer, there was just enough light for them to see the sign hanging from the rafters of the straw-topped inn: an image of a cock and a crow.
“The Cock and Crow,” Grey said with a smile. “God, I love it. Y’all have the best names. If we ever get back, when we get back, I’m opening a tavern in the Quarter with one of these names on it.”
“Y’all?”
She’d heard him say it more than once, and could understand the meaning easily. But it served as yet another reminder Grey was not from her time. “’Tis a common phrase in your century?”
As they dismounted and made their way to the stable, Grey explained that it was. Of sorts.
“We have dialects, just as you do here, even within my country.”
“The United States of America?”
Grey smiled again, that lazy yet confident smile that reminded her of the first day they’d met.
“You got it. And I’m from . . .”
“Louis
iana”—she made a face—“named after a future king of France.”
“The relations between your two countries don’t improve much, by the way,” Grey said, lowering his voice as they approached. “English wars with France will last into the twentieth century.”
Marian did not doubt it.
“The reins, my lady?”
A stableboy emerged from the dark to take the reins from Marian, reminding Greyson to be careful of what he said. Talking about events that would happen hundreds of years from now was a sure way to see them burned at the stake. If they truly did that sort of thing in this era.
He would have to ask Marian about that.
“Many thanks.” She smiled at the boy, who looked as if he’d not bathed in many days. He marveled, once again, at how little she acted like the stuffy English noblewoman he might expect. To be fair, Greyson always took it as a compliment when he was told he acted nothing like a billionaire golden boy. He had his parents to thank for that.
And now he knew why.
His mother’s clan was clearly influential, her father a laird, but there was a grittiness to this time, even among the elite, that no twenty-first century hardships could match.
After handing over the horses, they made their way to the front of the small inn. Greyson took a deep breath before opening the front door. From the first kick his uncle had given him the day he’d come through, Greyson had come to expect shit and more shit in each new situation they encountered.
This time, he was pleasantly surprised.
“It’s a friggin’ scene from Lord of the Rings,” he muttered.
Marian leveled him a sharp glare, and he coughed to cover his slip.
Small but cozy. Like if a neighborhood bar met a quaint bed-and-breakfast. It reminded him of an old-time tavern he’d visited once in Gettysburg. Dark but with enough light to see easily thanks to an open fire in the middle of the room, surrounded by stones. It seemed chimneys were reserved for the manors and castles, the vent in the roof above them the only way for the fire’s smoke to escape. Surprisingly, it wasn’t smoky, and the fire’s location lent a certain coziness to the space.
He loved it.
Reaching into one of the two bags they’d used to transport as much coin as possible from Marian’s dowry trunk, he tossed a coin to the innkeeper, who caught it easily. He was only one of four people in the whole place.
“Tankard of ale, a meal and a room?”
Without waiting for a response, he guided them to a small table near the edge of the room.
“You’ve quickly become accustomed to our ways,” Marian said, sitting across from him.
“Acclimate or die,” he responded, wishing it were some twisted hyperbole but dreading the truth of those words.
“I feared we may have to answer questions.” Her gaze shifted to two men playing chess by the fire. “Reivers?” she whispered.
“You’re asking me?”
He studied their padded gambesons, as Ross had called them, remembering seeing a hobbler, another word he’d learned from Ross, just inside the stable as they walked by.
“Most likely,” he agreed. “And him?”
Another man sat alone, looking straight at them. Unlike the others, he was dressed well. A knight, probably English by the looks of him.
Greyson knew a challenge when he saw one. He waited for the other man to break eye contact. When he finally looked back at Marian, she was shaking her head softly.
“You’ve a strange way about you,” she said.
“Why, thanks,” he said.
The innkeeper brought them two bowls of stew, and Greyson didn’t hesitate to dig in. His appetite hadn’t diminished since coming through time, but his weight probably had.
She didn’t elaborate as they ate mostly in silence. A comfortable silence in a comfortable room that could almost make him forget the shitstorm they were in at the moment.
He could tell Marian was uneasy about her role in all of it. She’d asked to go back no less than fifty times that day. But he wasn’t going to let that happen. If they went back to Hallstead, he knew without a doubt Ross wouldn’t hesitate to whisk Marian away.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said quietly between bites, “it must not have been a coincidence that I came back to exactly this time and literally dropped at my uncle’s feet.”
“You said your aunt was given that cross by the fae?”
“Mmm-hmmm.”
“And that you and your brother only came through after your brother learned one of the words of the chant had been incorrect.”
His mouth full of stew, Greyson nodded.
“We know little about moving through time,” she said, speaking so softly her words were barely audible, “other than ’tis possible. Do you think the cross is necessary?”
“It must be.”
“Then . . .” She swallowed, but he already knew what Marian was going to say. “How are we to get back?”
Greyson shrugged his shoulder. “My aunt must have found another one to pull my mother back.”
But she didn’t look relieved. Her brow furrowed. “And being dropped at your uncle’s feet. You think that was meant to happen? That you were supposed to meet Ross?”
Finished eating, Greyson wiped his mouth and sat back, mug in hand. “It’s a big country. I could have ended up anywhere. Somehow, the enchantment, or whatever it is, knows things. You could say it was chance my mother dropped in the French Quarter, or you could say it happened by design. Either way, it was lucky she ended up in a place with a history of cultures blending and clashing, where a woman in medieval garb would hardly attract notice.”
He took a swig of ale, accustomed to the maltier, sweeter taste now. “Which makes me wonder if my mother will actually be in Perthshire, if she did come through, or some other place. But I don’t know where because I don’t know why she needed to come back.”
He waited for Marian’s reaction.
“You believe if your brothers come through, they will fall into the right places as well?”
Much to Ian’s dismay, Greyson was an eternal optimist. So yes, he believed that.
“Maybe it’s wishful thinking,” he said, “but the more I think about it, aye, I do believe it.”
Marian’s eyes softened as she smiled.
“And that your mother came back to the very place she needed to be as well?”
He held her gaze and nodded once, hoping she would carry the line of reasoning a step further, just like he had. Something sparked in her eyes, and he leaned forward, reaching his hand across the table. She took it, more hesitantly than he would have liked.
“You think we were meant to meet?”
If Greyson wasn’t meant to be sitting here with this strong, beautiful woman, surrounded by the warmth of a raging fire in a room more pleasant than it had any right to be given its remote location, then he was a damn fool for believing it.
But he’d learned to trust his instincts, and he was following their lead now.
Why, then, did the revelation seem to distress Marian? He was sure she cared for him too, but something held her back.
“What is it?”
Still holding his hand, Marian took a drink with the other, the cloud of uncertainty that had passed over her features already gone.
“I believe—”
Marian’s words were cut off when the door unceremoniously slammed open, and the first pleasant evening he’d had in a long while came to an abrupt end.
22
“Who is it?” Marian asked from the other side of her door, just to be certain. She’d been waiting for Grey. When she’d excused herself from the hall so he could speak to his uncle, who had found them, he’d whispered to her, “I will come to you.”
“Greyson.” She opened the door before he finished. Quickly stepping inside, Grey closed it behind him and hesitated just briefly before pulling her into his arms. Marian went to him willingly.
At first, she thought she could be content to
simply lay her head on his chest, to breathe in the unique scent that was Greyson McCaim. But after just a few moments of listening to the rapid beating of his heart beneath her ear, she wanted more.
She wanted to know his talk with Ross had gone well. That his uncle had agreed she should stay with him and that they would continue to Perthshire on the morn.
But when she pulled away from his chest, she knew immediately that had not been the outcome. There was little light in this small room, but enough for her to see his tortured eyes. Standing on her toes, Marian kissed him, initiating for the first time.
She took what she wanted, exactly as Grey had promised that she could. The sense of freedom was almost as glorious as the feel of his lips on hers. The kiss quickly consumed them both, but Marian’s worries wouldn’t leave her. What had Ross said to him? Did he know Grey was with her now?
Marian pushed the thoughts aside, letting herself be in this very real moment. He might not be from her time, but Grey was flesh and blood, in her bedchamber, and if she were being honest, she’d fallen in love with him.
And although Marian had not known the love of a man before, she thought perhaps this might be how it felt.
Pushing against his chest ever so slightly, Marian sighed at the look on his face. Probably the same look she wore on her own.
Desperation. Admiration.
Love.
“Tell me what happened.”
If she’d wanted to quench the spark that had ignited between them, her question had been effective. Running a hand through his hair, Grey pulled away and sat on the bed. Marian wanted to join him.
She really, really wanted to join him.
But she didn’t. Instead, she sat on the wooden chair, remembering the last time they’d sat this way—one on the bed, one on the chair. How was it possible she’d come to be here, in this small room at the Cock and Crow in quite literally the middle of Scotland, with a man who had somehow come through time?
Sexy Scot (Highlander's Through Time Book 2) Page 12