Sexy Scot (Highlander's Through Time Book 2)

by Cecelia Mecca

  He’s right. The enchantment, or whatever it is, knows things.

  “He was not very pleased.”

  She knew him well enough to sense he was holding back.

  “Where is your uncle now?”

  “In the hall with the others. He’ll likely not be pleased to discover that I’ve gone missing.” Grey’s chin lifted. “Ross reminds me of my father in many ways. How he was before Mom disappeared.”

  When he looked at her, the pain of having left his father was evident. Grey’s family was never far from his thoughts. As it should be. As she’d always wished it would be for her.

  It seemed she would need to pull the information from him.

  “What did your uncle say?”

  Grey closed his eyes, the tic in his jaw more prominent now than she’d ever seen it before. Marian understood the battle raging inside of him, for the same battle was underway inside her.

  “That if we do not bring you to Duncan, his father will blame Clan MacKinnish. Rightfully so, I suppose, but the repercussions . . . Ross believes our relations with Bruce will suffer.”

  “Does he believe the Earl of Fife could pull his support of Bruce in retaliation?”

  Marian held her breath, waiting for the answer.

  “He believes it’s inevitable.”

  Marian wanted to hang her head, but showing Grey her disappointment would not do. He would attempt to comfort her. Mayhap even guess her intentions.

  And she could not let him know what she was thinking.

  “What will you do?” she asked.

  “Nothing. We will continue to Perthshire and find my mother and brother.”

  “And leave what in your wake?”

  Grey stood, coming to her. “I need to prove to my uncle that Clan MacKinnish shouldn’t get involved in a fight that is not theirs. They will all likely die for an outcome that cannot be changed. All the posturing in the world isn’t going to make Bruce or Balliol king. Not yet.”

  Marian was not so sure of that. If Grey and his brothers had been brought back for a reason, perhaps this was the reason.

  “But what if we could change things? What if Bruce is made aware of Edward’s involvement?” she asked. “Of his aspirations for the Crown of Scotland? If Alexander was killed on his orders, Bruce needs to know.”

  She took Greyson’s hand and stood.

  “A risky proposition, Marian. We have no way of knowing if the future can be changed. There are dozens of books and movies about people trying to do just that, and while those stories are fiction, there’s one common theme: it’s a dangerous thing, to try to change the inevitable.”

  Once she would have needed to ask him to explain his strange words, but Grey had told her of movies. And pictures. And planes. She believed all of it. Believed him.

  But if his knowledge of the future could not help him, then she knew of only one thing that could . . .

  It would do them no good if they angered her father, the Earl of Fife, and Bruce. Perhaps King Edward’s success was inevitable, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t start another war in the meantime.

  “Neither of us knows much about how your being here will affect the future. Or if it can, indeed, be altered.” She stopped, knowing her next argument would be wasted on him. “Your uncle will be looking for you,” she said instead, her heart heavy.

  “Aye,” he teased, kissing her. And when she kissed him back, it was with the knowledge that this would be the last time their lips met. The last time Marian would find herself in the arms of a man she loved, and who loved her.

  Neither of them had said the words, but she felt them in the tender way he touched her. Saw them in the way he looked at her. It was a powerful emotion, love, and one she should be blessed to have felt, if only for a short time.

  She felt the heaviness of that thought, and unfortunately, he noticed.

  Pulling away, he looked into her eyes for much too long. But instead of questioning her, he said, “We will make this work.”

  Marian knew otherwise, but she held her tongue. Often able to see the best in most situations, this particular one tested her like none other.

  “I have to go, but tomorrow, on the way to my mother’s, we’ll talk about the future.”

  “The future,” she mumbled, “sounds like a time I would like very much.”

  With a final squeeze of her hands, Grey smiled. “You will love it. Although Reikart will be pissed. He’s a big fan of the bachelor pad, as he calls it.”

  She didn’t have to ask. Grey could tell she had little idea what that meant.

  “Never mind. I’ll explain tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll see you in the morning. Lock the door behind me.”

  She tried to smile back, but Marian knew it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Grey was too distracted to notice. Likely worried about his uncle, he left with a final wink. The door had barely closed before her eyes welled, thinking of that last gesture. Then another vision came to her, that of her maid. How was Gilda faring at Fenwall? Had she heard of their attack? Had her father?

  If they did not know yet, word would reach them soon enough. And when she did not arrive in Pittillock, her father would be enraged. She’d only seen him lose his temper once—violently, at that. King Edward had censured him for forming an alliance with the Bishop of Glasgow. While it was not unusual for English border lords to ally with their Scottish neighbors, as they did with the Earl of Fife, that particular connection had apparently not been approved by their sovereign. The king’s regent had paid them a visit the year before to condemn the alliance. She’d happened upon her father that same night, raging in his solar. The coin he’d promised Robert Wishart, the bishop, was rescinded, which was precisely when talk of her betrothal had begun.

  The connection had never occurred to her before, but perhaps that meant Edward wished for her to marry Duncan. Why?

  It mattered not. As Grey had said, it was too dangerous to meddle with events that had not yet happened, the effect unknown. And it was much too dangerous for Clan MacKinnish to harbor someone who might tear apart their own alliances.

  After all, someday, according to Grey, the Bruce family would be one of kings.

  With any luck, the McCaim family would find themselves safely back at home, in New Orleans, free from the turmoil of this time.

  Of her time.

  23

  “What the fuck do you mean, ‘They’re gone’?”

  Greyson didn’t care about being careful. He didn’t give a shit if anyone thought his language peculiar. The only thing he cared about at the moment was the two words Brodie had just uttered.

  When he woke up before sunrise to a serving girl’s hushed pleas for his uncle to follow her, Greyson, like the others, had attempted to join him. But his uncle had waved them off, assuring the men that it was a small matter and none of them were needed. Telling them they could return to sleep.

  The piercing sound of a rooster, no less annoying in this century than his own, had awoken Greyson some time later. Brodie had still been in the room, but the others were gone. Gone, he’d assumed, to prepare for their departure.

  But Greyson had stumbled out to the stables to check for Marian’s trunk—part of his ritual given his worry someone would steal her money—only to find the cart horse was gone. Indeed, all of the horses were gone.

  He’d hurried out of the stables, hoping to find the mounts waiting outside. But they weren’t there either.

  “Brodie?” he’d shouted as the other man walked out toward him. “Where are the men?”

  The other man had at least possessed the grace to look guilty.

  “They’re gone.”

  After flinging his expletive-laden question at Brodie, Greyson tore into the inn, through the main room and up the creaky stairs. There were just four doors, one of which was . . . he tossed it open to find exactly what he’d been expecting.

  Nothing.

  Marian’s bedchamber was empty, no sign of her anywhere. Greyson looked at the ch
air she’d sat in the night before, his heart lurching.

  She’d known.

  Marian had known it would be their last night together. That look she’d given him, the one he’d tried to discern before nearly telling her . . .

  God dammit. Why hadn’t he just said the words? Would it have been so difficult to say I love you? Maybe it would have made a difference. Maybe she would have stayed.

  Sitting on the bed, Greyson buried his face in his hands. She was gone, and Ross had taken her.

  Traitor.

  Just fucking great.

  Dad was in the hospital, in a coma. Rhys and Mom were God knew where. Reikart and Ian were, at best, mourning the loss of nearly every friggin’ family member except each other. And now she was gone.

  The enormity of it sank into his chest, the dull pain a familiar one at this point, but no more welcome than it had been when his mother had first gone missing. He’d been so eager to bring Marian back. Show her everything that had come to pass in seven hundred years. Introduce her to his family after they reunited Mom and Dad. The doctor had said he could still recover, and Greyson had no doubt his mother’s voice was the one thing that would pull his father back to them.

  “Greyson?”

  He didn’t want to talk. Not to Brodie, not to anyone.

  But he wasn’t sure the Viking’s minion would appreciate being told to fuck off. He did have one question, though.

  “How did they manage it?”

  Brodie knew exactly what he was talking about. His sheepish shrug was as delicate as the Scots warrior was likely to get.

  “I’ve always slept like the dead”—he looked up to the rafters—“but all of them, and the horses too?”

  He was talking more to himself, but Brodie answered.

  “They brought the cart outside the stable last eve.” Brodie sat in the chair not long ago occupied by Marian. A much less pleasant sight. “So as not to wake you.”

  Greyson thought back to the serving girl who’d awoken his uncle.

  “She sent a maid to Ross.”

  “Aye.”

  “Who was all too happy to take her away from under my nose.”

  Brodie’s quizzical look would have to go unanswered. He was in no mood to explain his odd sayings at the moment.

  He sprang from the bed. If Ross, or Marian for that matter, thought he would sit here and twiddle his thumbs while she sacrificed herself for the good of his clan, both of them were in for a rude awakening.

  “I need a horse,” he muttered, leaving the empty chamber.

  “You’ll find none here,” Brodie said, his brogue thick, behind him. “The other visitors have all left, and it could be days before the Cock and Crow receives new ones.”

  “Then somewhere else. Another inn. A castle. Somewhere . . .”

  The lack of a response disturbed him. Greyson turned in the dimly lit corridor, the only light from the stairwell ahead.

  “How far exactly?”

  Brodie shrugged. “Brentford Abbey is just north.”

  “Just?”

  He didn’t like the look on the other man’s face.

  “Walking, you could get there”—he shrugged—“in two or three days’ time.”

  Two or three days. And if he could secure a horse at this abbey, he would still have to somehow catch up with them. Before they reached the Earl of Fife. He’d travel faster alone, without a cart horse, but still . . .

  “Bollocks, Greyson, you are not planning to follow them?”

  He would have liked to say, I didn’t come through time, find an uncle I didn’t know I had and a woman I didn’t know I needed to let one deliver the other to a lifetime of misery. But he didn’t. Instead, he asked his clansman a question.

  “Damned right I am. Now are you coming with me or nae?”

  24

  If she had thought leaving her home to journey north to a man she did not wish to marry was awful, this day was much, much worse. Not only would she be delivered to Duncan soon, but she went to him knowing what it meant to love. And be loved.

  Knowing the kindling of desire and the feel of a kiss that left her wanting more.

  Knowing a man existed who thought her capable and strong when Marian had seen herself as neither for so long.

  That it was the right thing to do mattered little. Nor did it matter that Ross and the others agreed with her. Of course they would, for she did it for the good of their clan. For Greyson. But that did not make Marian feel any better.

  When she’d asked the serving girl to fetch Ross, a part of her had hoped he would say, Nay, you’ve no need to do this. It would have forced her into a quandary, of course, but maybe she’d not be sitting astride her horse, the trunk of gold that was her entire worth to her father bouncing up and down in front of her.

  Marian could not stop staring at that gilded trunk, thinking of what lay inside. With every moment that passed, she hated it more and more. Grey had mentioned a saying he loved, one he’d clung to after his mother’s disappearance. All day she’d tried to convince herself to be happy that it happened rather than sad that it was over, but she simply could not do it.

  This would all have been so much easier if she’d never met him.

  “Lady Marian, we’d not planned to stop before the abbey. Unless you must do so?”

  Ross had ridden up to her, but it took Marian a few moments for his words to penetrate. They would be staying at St. Aberdeen this eve. At this pace, they would reach Duncan’s estate in two days’ time.

  “There is no need to stop for me,” she said. Marian had become accustomed to drinking just a bit less on long-riding days, making the need to stop less pressing.

  She’d become accustomed to many new things since leaving Fenwall, some she now wished to forget.

  “If there were a way to avoid this, we would do it easily, lass.”

  His expression was pained, and Marian did not doubt the truth of his words. Ross had been kind to her from the start and had expressed regret at agreeing with the choice she’d made, to leave Greyson.

  He slowed, so Marian did the same. Before long, the cart horse rode well ahead of them.

  “He told you,” Ross said.

  It was not a question, so Marian didn’t feel the need to respond. She and Ross had never spoken about Grey’s unique position.

  “My sister, Grace, his aunt . . . for as far back as I can remember, the lass has gotten herself into trouble. Consorting with fae . . .” He tsked, clearly displeased. “We warned her. Eventually, my father would say, someone was bound to notice her abilities. But this—” Ross shook his head. “’Tis hard to believe, but the truth of it was impossible to ignore. My other sister, Shona, Greyson’s mother—their resemblance is unmistakable.”

  “Do you believe she is here? Shona? That she’s come back?”

  The wind picked up around them, rain certainly threatening.

  “It seems likely, aye. Irvine may be dead, but I fear she is in danger still. His companion implicated your English king and a baron he did not name. ’Tis a tangle we’ve yet to fully untie.”

  Your English king.

  But he wasn’t hers any longer. Marian would be married to a Scot, the young babe across the sea in Norway her sovereign now. Truly it did not matter. She’d belonged nowhere for so long . . .

  “I am sorry for it, lass.”

  Marian looked up at the fearsome face of a man who had protected her, who was clearly torn about the role he played now . . . she felt poorly for him. No one should be forced to make such a choice.

  “’Tis not your fault. I am the daughter of the Earl of Fenwall. My duty has always been clear.” Marian held her chin high despite knowing she rode toward a fate she hated—one she would have done anything to escape. “I hope the son is better than the father. It appears we are on the same side, at least. From what Grey said, it seems the Bruce family will emerge victorious in the end.”

  Ross made a sound low in his throat, sounding almost like a growl. “A
fter what Greyson claims to be a long and bloody war.”

  “Claims? Do you not believe him?”

  Ross didn’t answer right away, but Marian understood anyway. Even as she’d come to believe Grey, some of his claims were so far-fetched her mind could not fully grasp the impact of them.

  Finally, he said, “If the chance presents itself, I believe Edward will indeed strip Scotland for his gain. Men such as him care for power and gold, and not much else.”

  Marian sighed.

  Power and gold. She agreed but would add land as well. For her father, it seemed just as important, although she suspected power had figured more into his decision to marry her off. Once again, she thought about the visit the king’s regent had paid him last year, and how talk of the engagement had come soon afterward.

  Marian pulled back the reins, slowing to a stop as she spotted the cart horse just edging its way over a ridge in front of them.

  “What do you suppose my father gains in an alliance with the Earl of Fife? Would he not have done better to marry me to an English noble?”

  “Like many of the border lords, his allegiance is not always aligned to country first,” Ross said, having stopped with her. “What is it, lass?”

  “Bruce attacked Balliol land to send a message to King Edward.”

  Ross made a face of disgust. “Aye.”

  “The Earl of Fife is the one Guardian loyal to the Bruce family.”

  She thought aloud, more for her own benefit than for Ross’s. Her thoughts, a tumbling mess, began to run together as the wind picked up. She knew there was a connection but could not yet put it together.

  “Did you know my father is a third cousin to Edward?” she asked suddenly, aware Ross had not known. She did not say it to brag. Marian held little love for a man with a reputation such as King Edward’s, sovereign or nay.

  “I did not.”

  The king and her father were steadfast allies and would have the very same goals. But what goals were those?

  “Rain is coming, my lady. We should be on our way.”

  Ross had hardly finished speaking when the first drops fell, Marian unable to finish her thoughts. But thankfully, it did not appear they would be making their way to the abbey after all. When they climbed the ridge, she could see the rest of their party heading toward a small village, likely to take shelter from the rain.