Which suited her well. She urgently needed to continue speaking to Ross.
25
“Never arrived?”
Greyson glared at Brodie, which was becoming something of a habit. This was the McCaim glare, named as such by those who worked with him and his brothers. This same glare had always collapsed their business adversaries’ best intentions and ensured McCaim Shipping would not be screwed over.
But it had no effect on the Scot, which was how Greyson knew he was telling the truth.
After the hell they’d been through that day, never mind being completely soaked, this was not the news he’d wanted to hear. But there was no way Brodie could fake it so well.
“They were headed here?”
“Aye,” Brodie said, “I told ye so already.”
He turned to the abbess, the woman whom the nuns had summoned when they’d arrived in the dead of night, asking after a traveling party. Judging by their deference, he assumed she was in charge. She looked the part, and he supposed her title sounded pretty official too.
Shit, he was in a medieval abbey. Sometimes the reality of this time-traveling thing slapped him in the face like a bad call that saw the Saints booted from the playoffs.
“Ah, my lord. They never arrived,” she repeated.
What gave the abbess the impression he was someone to call my lord, Greyson had no clue. But he’d have to remember to tell this one to Ian. Maybe he could get the scamp to retire his old nickname in favor of my lord.
“How is that possible?” He addressed the question to Brodie, who had no answer but a shrug.
By some massive stroke of luck, the horses hadn’t been a problem. Not ten minutes after he’d realized Marian was missing, two riders had arrived at the inn like a gift from the time-traveling gods. And although Greyson normally wouldn’t steal from anyone, they hadn’t had enough coin to buy the horses outright. Plus, Brodie had said they were reivers—men who thieved for a living. If a person had to steal, ideally it would be from a thief. Still, he didn’t want Ian to find out. Man, he’d have a field day with this one.
“Is there another place they might have gone nearby?” he asked, aware they now had an audience. No less than ten nuns stood off to the side, looking at them as if it were a rare occurrence to host a time traveler from New Orleans. Of course, they couldn’t know that, and Greyson thought he was doing a pretty good job of fitting in at this point.
“Pellshire, perhaps?”
“Is that the village we passed?”
Brodie nodded.
“Fuck,” he muttered before remembering his place. “Pardon me, Sister.”
When Brodie looked at him with a mixture of shock and mortification, Greyson realized maybe he wasn’t doing such a hot job of pretending to be from the Middle Ages, after all. Cursing was a lot less fun here. And yeah, he had no idea what to call an abbess.
“Lady Mother,” Brodie quickly corrected, solving that mystery.
It was easily a three-hour ride back there, and if they were wrong and the others had gone past the abbey, continuing north for some reason . . .
“I am sorry the news causes you distress,” the abbess said, looking at him as if he were the devil incarnate. “We will pray for you.”
“Tha—” He cleared his throat. “Many thanks, Lady Mother. I apologize for troubling you.”
Brodie looked at him with approval this time, almost like Rhys did when he closed a deal for the company. If he couldn’t get back to his own time, maybe he could make this medieval thing work.
If he couldn’t get back . . .
Greyson had to get back. His father might be dying, and he still had no idea what was happening with his other brothers.
He turned to leave, Brodie following him. They didn’t say anything until both were mounted and back on the road.
“To Pellshire?” Greyson said, making it sound like a suggestion even though he had no intention of standing down.
Brodie made the same sound he’d made after Greyson had stolen—borrowed—the horses. He didn’t like it, but he’d also not let Greyson roam the countryside alone. Indeed, he followed without trying to dissuade or reason with him. The unwavering commitment to him, to his safety, made him miss his brothers even more.
“Is everyone in Clan MacKinnish related?”
Thankfully, he could hardly see Brodie’s face in the moonlight. The guy was probably looking at him like he’d gone crazy. He’d heard his mother talk about her family’s history, but he’d assumed she was a genealogy buff, and frankly it hadn’t interested him much.
He should have paid more attention.
“Nay, my grandfather was a squire to Laird MacKinnish.”
Laird MacKinnish. Greyson’s grandfather.
“What is the laird like?”
Brodie navigated them easily despite the dark. These small horses might look a bit strange, but apparently they were accustomed to the terrain.
“Stubborn. Loyal. Not unlike his sons.”
Greyson patted his horse as the beast stumbled, quickly righting himself. “Sounds like more than one of my brothers.”
“You’ve brothers, then, aye?”
Shit.
“Three of them.” Anticipating the next question, Greyson offered the link Ross had fed to him. “The laird had a brother none speak of who left Perthshire as a young man and lived in London. I am his grandson, though I’ve not lived in one place long enough to call it home.”
Greyson hated lying, but it had to be done. He and Ross had agreed no one but their immediate family should be told about the time traveling.
“A brother . . .”
Greyson could tell Brodie wanted to ask more questions, so he headed them off.
“I’ve always wanted to come to Scotland,” he said, more comfortable for being honest. “I was here only once and for too brief a time. Your country is spectacular.”
“Not mine,” Brodie offered, “but yours too. Will you stay?”
Wasn’t that the question of the century.
“I don’t know.”
It was the only answer he had, because unfortunately it was brutally true. Greyson had no idea if it was possible to go back, but he would devote all his energy to trying. He needed to find his mother and bring her back to Dad. His dad’s life literally depended on it.
They fell into an easy silence, one punctuated by the sounds of the night and by his own heartbeat. He could hear it in his ears as they finally spotted the torches up ahead. The village. Surrounded by fields and encircled with a wooden wall, the few dozen buildings looked like something out of The Sims Medieval. He’d never been a huge gamer, but Greyson knew a bit about medieval town building thanks to his college roommate. Remarkably, the game version was a good facsimile, at least from this distance. The only things missing were Tudor-style homes and a windmill. But as they approached, he could spot a waterwheel at the very edge of the cluster of buildings, a chapel. Maybe only twenty or thirty buildings total.
Was she here? Though the sun hadn’t risen yet, judging from the time they’d spent on the road and signs of activity here and there, morning wasn’t far away.
What if she’s not here? What if she is here but refuses to come with me?
Greyson exchanged a glance with his tenuous ally, fully aware he was Ross’s man and not his own. If push came to shove, Greyson would be in this fight alone.
But it was a fight he didn’t intend to lose.
A fight for the woman he loved.
26
“Are you certain?”
Marian had asked Ross that same question repeatedly the night before. His only response, then and now, was a grunt that could be mistaken, maybe, for an aye.
They sat together at one of four trestle tables. The lord and lady of Brennan, the bastille house they now occupied, sat at the front of the small hall.
By the time they’d satisfied the guards stationed just inside the wooden palisade that surrounded the village, Marian and her companions
had been soaked, the rain unrelenting for much of the evening. They’d gone to the inn, and would have been content to stay there, but when Lord Brennan learned they were hosting an earl’s daughter, he’d invited them to stay. Gracious hosts, they’d provided them with means to dry their clothing, a fine meal, and even a private bedchamber for Marian.
She’d used it to finally have her discussion with Ross, however unusual the arrangement, and they’d stayed awake well into the night.
“Quite certain,” he said yet again. Ripping off a hunk of bread and spreading it with freshly churned butter, he took an enormous bite. Judging from their murmurs of delight, Ross and the others clearly approved of the meal. What a treasure they’d found. Marian took a bite of her own buttered bread and could not help but close her eyes in pleasure. Was that honey she tasted?
“Hello, Marian.”
Her eyes whipped open. It could not be.
“Wondering how we got here so quickly?”
Marian simply stared as Grey sat down opposite her, nudging his uncle to move down in the process. Ross was apparently as surprised as she felt.
“I have to admit, we got lucky. There are currently two angry reivers, or at least I assume they’re pretty angry, who are probably looking to kill me.”
“Us,” Brodie said from behind her. When he sat down as well, none of the others at the table said a word.
“Fate is funny that way, I guess. Need a horse? One shows up on your doorstep. Or at your inn, in our case.”
He was not pleased. Not pleased at all.
Marian swallowed hard.
“We rode through the night but, surprise, when we got to Brentford Abbey, you weren’t there.”
“Greyson, we must talk.”
“Aye, we must.”
If possible, he was even more upset now than when he’d first sat down. And Ross, bless him, was looking at his nephew as if he’d never seen him before.
“Shall we seek privacy, perhaps?”
But Greyson was already shaking his head. “Oh no,” he said, shooting a glance at Ross, “this is for you too.”
Their own men weren’t the only ones in the hall listening now. Villagers, servants . . . their attention was all on them.
“You’ll not be marrying anyone, not unless it’s me. I love you, Lady Marian of Fenwall, and as God and my clan are my witnesses, you will not sacrifice yourself for anyone. I will find a way to make this right by Clan MacKinnish, but we will do it together.”
No one reacted at their table, but a smattering of applause and the sound of mugs being pounded on tables meant she wasn’t the only one in the hall pleased by Greyson’s declaration. In fact, despite his anger, Marian couldn’t help but smile.
“You love me,” she repeated, earning an eye roll from Ross.
“Aye, lass,” he said, sounding a little less like the Southerner he’d called himself and more like the grandson of Laird MacKinnish. In fact, Marian could not help but stare at him, the transformation remarkable. He was one of them. Nay, not just one of them—he would be her husband. “I do. Verra much.”
Ross snickered.
“Too much?” he asked, the corners of his mouth lifting just slightly.
His uncle nodded and then raised his fist in the air, nodding to the lord and lady. Leaning forward, he lowered his voice for their ears only and said, “We’ve something to tell you, lad.”
He looked pointedly at his nephew, as if to tell him the time for making a scene had ended.
“I realized something,” she began, only Greyson and Brodie unaware of what she was about to say. “Why would my father desire the Earl of Fife as an ally?”
Greyson’s brows drew together. After his proclamation, that was clearly not what he’d thought she would ask.
“You said you didn’t know why,” Greyson said.
“And I did not. At least, not before. But my father is quite close to King Edward. And that man, the one who tried to harm”—she nearly said your mother—“Ross’s sister, his companion alluded to Edward’s involvement in Alexander’s death.”
She could tell Greyson had yet to make the connection.
“And then Bruce attacked Balliol,” she whispered, “proving his willingness and ability to fight for Scotland.”
“Aye.” Greyson shook his head. “But why are you telling me all this?”
“Because,” she finished, “I believe my father is helping Edward appear to support Bruce by aligning himself with Bruce’s allies, such as the Earl of Fife. But in truth, they are really positioning the king to insinuate himself in Scotland’s problems of inheritance.”
“Problems?” Brodie asked. Marian was prepared for the question as the other men had asked the same. She and Greyson and Ross knew what the future held, but the other men did not. Nor could they.
“Your envoy was only necessary because the babe has such a tenuous hold on the Scottish crown,” she said, unable to divulge more. “What if Edward plans to take advantage of that, to assert himself, and do so with the support of the Scottish nobles closest to him?”
“Like Bruce,” Greyson finished.
“Aye, like Bruce. Would my father not be rewarded if such were to occur?”
Greyson contemplated her words and then came to the very same conclusion she and Ross had reached the previous night. Marian wasn’t sure how they’d not all seen through her father’s motives earlier. Part of her was convinced Ross went along with her explanation more out of pity for her and Greyson’s situation than anything. But none of that mattered now.
“Your father uses your marriage to Duncan to help Edward secure his position for a future claim?”
Marian cleared her throat, but she could see her warning was unnecessary. Greyson stopped there. Without the benefit of knowing future events, the other men might believe it a tale she’d conjured to get out of her marriage agreement. But she and Greyson and Ross did know the future. And they knew Edward’s plans for Scotland reached far wider than he would admit for a few years to come.
“Your father is despicable,” Greyson spat.
Marian did not disagree.
“I leave after breaking my fast,” Ross said.
“To?”
“To speak to the Earl of Fife.”
Grey clearly did not understand their plan and looked inclined to pounce on his uncle.
“I will not be going with him,” she added quickly. “Ross has agreed to negotiate on my behalf. My dowry will be offered as compensation for the broken betrothal, my father’s true plans revealed.”
“True or nay,” Ross finished, “ Fife will believe it before I finish. He will take the coin offered, break the marriage agreement, and know the Earl of Fenwall as a man whose only true allegiance is to the King of England. There is, of course, the possibility he could be complicit with Fenwall. I shall ascertain the best way forward with him once there.”
Grey’s eyes widened.
“You will do that? For Marian?”
“For Marian. For you. For our clan.”
This time, Grey’s clansmen were the ones who pounded their mugs on the table. Her clansmen. They’d accepted her as one of their own.
“And if the earl does not accept your offering?”
That’s when she smiled, grateful for the proclamation Grey had made upon entering the hall. She and Ross had an idea about that as well. But she had not wanted to force Grey into it. He’d talked about bringing her back to his time and letting her go free, if she so willed it.
But she did not will it.
Marian wanted only to be with him.
“We did have an idea about that.”
Silent this whole time, Alban apparently could hold it in no longer. All of the men knew their tenuous plan.
“You’ll be gettin’ married this day,” Alban broke in with a smile. “The Earl of Fife cannae have her.”
She watched Grey’s expression carefully. And was pleased by what she saw there.
For the first time since he’d
entered the hall, Grey smiled genuinely. He stood, walked around to her side of the table in a few short strides, and fairly lifted her from the bench.
“Now that,” he said, kissing her in full view of the others, “is the first piece of good news I’ve heard in weeks.”
27
This was not the wedding Marian had envisioned when leaving Fenwall.
With Ross anxious to leave, and all of them ready to make their way to Perthshire, arrangements had been made remarkably fast. So fast, indeed, that Marian had not had an opportunity to speak to Grey alone.
Lady Brennan had been more than gracious in helping Marian find a suitable gown. And though they’d just broken their fast, she’d insisted a cake be made in their honor. None seemed to care Marian was an English bride, or that the circumstances surrounding their hasty nuptials were suspicious at best. Even the chaplain had been easily swayed, courtesy of Marian’s coin.
But she needed to speak with Grey before the wedding. She had to know this was what he wanted. Lady Brennan’s maid had fetched him for her, and now she awaited him in a small, dark chamber at the back of the chapel, her hands trembling.
When the door cracked open, a refreshed groom, hair still wet, entered. He’d shaved too, the change remarkable. Grey looked more like a nobleman now even though he wore the same clothing. He had always stood tall, confidence oozing from him.
But this Grey . . . he’d changed since they first met. She’d noticed earlier, but it was even more pronounced now.
And maybe she had changed too.
“In my time, it’s bad luck to see the bride before the ceremony,” he said glibly, but then he stopped, his gaze taking her in. He frowned, not the reaction she’d hoped to see. “You look like a noblewoman.”
The gown she’d borrowed, one that had belonged to Lady Brennan’s daughter, who was now married herself, was indeed lovely. A deep blue velvet lined with gold thread at the sleeves. Marian wore her own gold belt and a necklace she’d taken from her trunks. Lady Brennan had offered her maid’s services in arranging her hair atop her head, but she’d insisted on keeping it down, unadorned and untamed.
Sexy Scot (Highlander's Through Time Book 2) Page 14