“Hunting with our father.”
“And the others?”
“All gone. Some with Rhys, some to Bruce. But everyone is safe,” she reassured him.
Greyson couldn’t take his eyes off her, still stunned that his mother was here, standing in front of him. The shock of it hadn’t worn off.
“For now, we’ve much to discuss,” Ross said.
The understatement of the year.
“Come inside. And welcome to the family,” his mother said to Marian and then turned to him. “Grey. Welcome home. To your other home.”
For now, this one would have to be enough.
Epilogue
“Stirling Castle.” Greyson whistled as they rode up the hill toward the castle. “It’s crazy to think about the things that will happen here.”
With only Marian and Brodie nearby, he was free to talk openly. They’d finally let Brodie in on their secret.
“In less than five years, it will be under English control again.” Something his mother had told him before they left Hightower.
“Your mother said it will change hands five times before the boy takes it back,” Marian said.
The only people who knew the truth at Highwater were the immediate family and those who’d known Shona before her journey. They’d learned to talk in code to avoid revealing their secret. “The boy” was twelve-year-old Bruce, the one who would one day be king.
“I knew I’d heard of it before. That bridge”—he pointed to the one they’d crossed earlier—“will go down in history for its role in the Battle of Stirling Bridge. Everyone will know William Wallace, even in my country.”
In the month since they’d returned to Hightower, his mother, his grandfather, and Ross had all agreed changing history was a dangerous undertaking, but they were determined to at least make the Bruce understand the situation as it stood. If he thought King Edward a possible ally, they aimed to change his mind. Make the grandfather and the son understand the English king’s motives were not, would never be, pure. When it came to the Scottish crown, Edward cared little for mediation.
He planned to take what he wanted for himself.
They were here to guide the Bruce. It would be great if Greyson could simply walk up to the man and tell him everything he knew, but everyone knew it wasn’t so simple. Besides, they still had work to do. They needed to expose Baron Bellecote, the baron who’d schemed with Edward to see Alexander murdered. Apparently Rhys’s new wife had been betrothed to marry the bastard.
And they had one more goal: to find Grace and the cross and get the hell home.
“Will ye talk to the Bruce yerself, or leave Ross to it?” Brodie asked.
Apparently Greyson’s speech wasn’t quite up to snuff. His “speak like a medieval Scot” lessons with Marian inevitably turned into a very different kind of lessons each night. His mother tried, but apparently it wasn’t so easy to transcend seven hundred years in a few short months.
“Ross will do the talking, but I damn sure plan to be there.”
“You are certain it’s wise, Grey?” Marian asked. Neither she nor his mother thought it was a good idea for him to take part. But he’d decided he couldn’t just sit around and wait, no matter how compelling his wife’s company.
His mother had remained at Hightower. Someone needed to be there who knew everything that was happening. Especially since there was still a chance one of his other brothers might show up. They knew about Hightower Castle. If they ended up in this time, they’d rendezvous there.
“I’m certain,” he said with as much authority as possible.
But Marian could see right through him, something she excelled at.
“You’re nervous.”
He loved when she talked twenty-first century like that.
Greyson could see Brodie watching him as they approached the others, who’d stopped at the gatehouse.
“No. Not at all,” he lied.
Nervous about meeting the man who held his clan’s allegiance? About chitchatting with a boy who would someday become the King of Scotland? What was there to be nervous about? He did this kind of thing all the time.
“You have that smile,” Marian said. “Do I want to know what you’re thinking?”
“Nay, my lady. You do not.”
Brodie rolled his eyes as Uncle Ross talked to the guards. Eventually, their party was let inside, but it would be some time before they actually reached the keep. That was another thing that continued to surprise him. It was like being in Las Vegas. The buildings were so big they looked like they were right down the street, but really they were miles away.
These castles, Stirling in particular, were absolutely sprawling.
But before long, they were being led into the massive front doors of the main keep. Just before they entered, he watched as Marian pulled her mantle closed. For someone who’d been raised in Northern England, she had a remarkable dislike of the cold.
Greyson couldn’t wait to get her to New Orleans.
“That smile again.”
As they were greeted by the steward, he fought the urge to grab her. Kiss the hell out of her. He was learning, ever a dutiful student. Public displays of affection always brought strange looks. Which was fine at Hightower, where everyone knew him as the eccentric relative from the south.
But Greyson couldn’t bring that kind of attention to them here. He had come as a passive observer. And, oddly enough, he was fine with that fact.
He had nothing to prove. Not to Marian or his uncle, not even to himself.
The fact that they’d entered a royal residence was evident everywhere.
“Jesus,” he whispered to Marian, “I thought Quinting was impressive.”
To think the English called their northern neighbors heathens. The décor was just as colorful, but there was gold everywhere, on everything.
“Remarkable given how often it’s been ravaged,” she whispered back.
When Marian leaned this close to him, he risked being the uncouth American who whisked his wife into his arms and embarrassed them both. That smell, uniquely hers, was created for him alone.
Greyson was convinced fate had brought them together. His mother had said more times than he could count that this wasn’t the son she knew. But it wasn’t the five years apart that had made the change. It was just Greyson 2.0. Post time travel. Post Marian.
“You think we’re likely to get a private bedchamber?”
The steward ordered a servant to take their belongings. Apparently they’d be meeting the Bruce family sooner rather than later.
“This way. My lord has been waiting for you,” the steward said to Ross.
Looking at him and Marian, the steward paused. “My lady? I shall have you accompanied to the hall with the others.”
Apparently only he and Ross were allowed into the solar chamber.
Fuck that.
“Lady Marian of Fenwall,” he introduced his wife, “will be accompanying us.”
He could establish rank with the best of them. And thankfully, the steward didn’t bat an eye. Not so Ross, who openly glared at him.
Greyson gave his uncle a look back but mouthed, okay. He knew his place. Kind of.
In contrast to the glitz of the great hall, the men inside the solar looked every bit as ordinary as he and his uncle. As they were introduced, Greyson realized the elder Bruce, the grandfather, wasn’t in attendance.
But his son and grandson were, and Greyson couldn’t stop staring. This boy would be king.
Their demeanor as casual as their dress, Lord Bruce grasped his uncle’s shoulder like he was an old college roommate.
“So a relative, aye?”
Bruce was looking at him.
“Greyson McCaim and his wife, Lady Marian.”
“Fenwall’s daughter,” Bruce interjected, gesturing for them all to sit. For a solar, the chamber was dark as shit. If they had to stay in this time, Greyson would become a damn candlemaker. They’d for sure never go out of busin
ess.
“Well informed, as always,” Ross said, sitting next to him on the medieval equivalent of a loveseat with more intricately embroidered cushions than a wrought iron railing in the Quarter.
“Her father isn’t pleased.”
Marian stiffened.
“But apparently has accepted the fact that his alliance to us will be through Clan MacKinnish instead of Fife.”
Greyson winced. This guy pretty much knew everything already.
Well, except for all the future-based information they had to share.
“Her dowry,” Ross said, his tone slightly defensive, “without any nuptials, is more goodwill than Fife deserved.”
Damn. His uncle wasn’t here to mince words.
“Perhaps. But your loyalty,” Bruce said, just as directly, “is to Clan Bruce.”
“My lord,” Marian cut in. “I do apologize if my altered wedding plans have caused the Bruce family any distress. Please know, Clan MacKinnish is as devoted to you as any ally has ever been to my father, if not more so. As for my father’s distress . . .”
They all watched as Marian seemed to struggle to find the words.
“It matters not,” she continued.
Well then.
“His loyalty lies with King Edward, and him alone. I can attest personally to the fact.”
Bruce stared at his wife for a little too long. But not in that way. Ross had told him the man had actually married for love, a fact that wasn’t lost on any of them.
Not that they were relying on his sense of romanticism to buy them goodwill and an ear inclined to listen. But still.
“‘You fell in love with my flowers and not my roots. So when autumn came, you knew not what to do.’”
They all turned to look at the boy who stood behind his father.
“Robert.” His father’s word was a warning.
But as Lord Bruce and Ross continued to talk, Greyson could not help but watch the boy. They’d dismissed him out of hand. But his words . . . he had no idea where they came from, or who the boy had quoted, but they told Greyson one thing.
He already knew.
Somehow, he knew what his elders did not, at least not yet. Maybe he had the advantage of being quieted too often, something that had given him the opportunity to listen more.
But at least one person in this chamber suspected what they already knew to be true. King Edward was not to be trusted.
“What are your thoughts on the matter?” Lord Bruce’s words to Greyson pulled him out of his thoughts.
Somehow Ross had navigated the discussion to exactly where they’d wanted it. No big revelations, just planting a seed for now. Once they had more details about Bellecote and the Irvines, the Bruce family would be told more, maybe even all of it.
For now, he smiled at the future king. “I believe, as Master Bruce suggests, that there is something to be learned from the English king.”
If his answer was deliberately vague, he’d done his job. It seemed to satisfy Lord Bruce, but not the boy. He peered at him as if trying to figure out what, exactly, was to be learned from King Edward.
Future Earl of Carrick, hold on to your convictions. Accept the English king as an ally against the Johns, Balliol and Comyn. When Comyn seizes your estates, accept Edward’s aid then too. But when he attacks your own people, it will be time to turn on him.
And you’ll do it.
Of course, he couldn’t say any of it out loud. But as the two of them continued their staring contest, Greyson fancied the boy somehow understood him.
Fancied.
Jesus, he needed to get back to the twenty-first century.
“You’ll stay at Stirling for a sennight at least,” Lord Bruce was saying now.
Never more grateful for a meeting to be over, Greyson stood with the others.
“A few days,” his uncle said. “You’ll tell me what’s happened since Turnberry?”
“Aye.” Bruce nodded his head to him and Marian. “Your chambers are prepared. Allow the Bruce hospitality to welcome you both to our cause.”
Yep. So he was pretty much officially a supporter of Clan Bruce and their campaign to take the Scottish throne. It would be pretty cool if Greyson hadn’t known it would take them twenty years to come out ahead. And if he had any clue whether or not Reikart and Ian figured out how to properly say the chant, coming through time after him.
Finding his brothers across seven hundred years might prove more difficult than being smack-dab in the middle of a medieval history lesson.
“Many thanks, Lord Bruce,” Marian said. Greyson echoed her words and left with a final glance at the boy. As their group walked toward the great hall, he looked at Ross, who nodded. The Viking was back. Anytime Ross wanted to make an impression, he scowled like that.
Maybe Greyson should try that tactic in the boardroom.
“Will you pardon us, Ross?” Marian asked suddenly. “We will join you in the hall soon.”
Ross grunted and walked away, but not before Greyson caught the hint of a smile.
“Our chamber, if it pleases you,” Marian said to one of the two servants who’d accompanied them from the solar.
“Aye, my lady.”
And he felt another surge of love for his wife—a nearly constant sensation, truth be told.
She had literally just skipped out on the midday meal for an afternoon “lesson.” Because there was no doubt from the look in her eyes what this was all about.
Greyson confirmed it the minute he closed the chamber door behind him.
He didn’t say a word, and neither did she.
Instead, he kissed her, hard. Remembering she wouldn’t have more than one change of clothes, he was as careful as possible when removing them. Not that he was a caveman who’d tear off his wife’s clothing in an effort to have sex with her.
A medieval man, maybe, but not a Neanderthal.
“Here?” Marian asked when he pushed her naked body up against the door. The bed was too damn far away.
“Aye, here.”
She wrapped her legs around his waist when he lifted her, but it was up to him to guide himself inside, and Greyson did precisely that.
“Mmmm,” was the last thing he heard as he captured her lips once again. Marian set the pace as he held her up, his arms straightening as he indulged in the glorious delight of being inside his wife. Unfortunately, with his hands holding her up, he couldn’t caress her everywhere. Maybe later. They would take it slow, Greyson continuing to explore every curve.
This was not the time for slow sensual pleasures, but for raw, unchecked passion. When she stilled, clenching around him, Greyson all but roared with pleasure pumping through him one last time.
Still for a moment, he finally, reluctantly, let her down. But he didn’t let her go.
Greyson would never let her go.
“Well, Maid Marian, it seems your lesson on afternoon delights is complete.”
He kissed her nose and tried to smooth down her hair, knowing they’d have to return to the hall.
“I should think so. After all, who better to teach me than my very own”—she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him back—“Robin Hood.”
Laughing at her own joke, Marian broke away and reached down for her kirtle. Greyson took the opportunity she offered and slapped her glorious ass.
“Oh!”
She stood back up, smiling.
“Lest you forget, wife, Robin was, first and foremost, an outlaw. A man who abided by no one’s rules but his own.”
Marian raised her brows.
“OK, and maybe by Maid Marian’s too. I am, after all, a modern medieval man.”
For now.
Highlander’s Through Time is a four book series of interconnected standalones. Be sure to read them all!
Sinful Scot (Book 1)
Sexy Scot (Book 2)
Seductive Scot (Book 3)
Scandalous Scot (Book 4)
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About the Author
Cecelia Mecca is the author of medieval romance, including the Border Series, and sometimes wishes she could be transported back in time to the days of knights and castles. Although the former English teacher’s actual home is in Northeast Pennsylvania where she lives with her husband and two children, her online home can be found at CeceliaMecca.com. She would love to hear from you.
If you’d prefer to chat with one of Cecelia’s characters instead, Greyson McCaim is waiting to talk to you about his series, a brand new Scottish time travel called Highlander’s Through Time. Subscribe to chat with Grey here.
Preview of Seductive Scot
Chapter One
All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players.
~ William Shakespeare, As You Like It
The Past
1286
Fifeshire, Scotland
The Scottish Court was full of snakes disguised in fine silk gowns and plaids. Lady Deirdre Irvine opened the door to Queen Dowager Yolande’s solar, and a hush fell, calculating gazes turning her way. Her spine stiffened with realization: she was the mouse the serpents intended to feast upon tonight. Pushing her shoulders back, she notched up her chin and glided into the room donning her practiced smile. Climbing out of the disfavor created when her father was named a coward after taking his own life five years earlier was tedious and treacherous, but it had taught her a thing or two. She never showed how she really felt to anyone but those she trusted emphatically, and that list was short, consisting only of her younger sister, Maggie. The list had never been long, but it had, until recently, included her elder brother. Lately, Yearger had been acting as if he were keeping secrets, and Deirdre had a bad feeling that he was up to no good.
She made her way down the open aisle to Queen Yolande. She sat at the far side of the room under a large window where moonlight streamed over her, highlighting her smooth, youthful skin. It still felt odd to think of the young queen as a dowager. The newly widowed queen was resplendent in the dark-colored gown she’d been wearing to mark the mourning of her late husband, King Alexander. She looked every inch the frail widow with her pale coloring, sad smile, and the dark smudges under her eyes.
Sexy Scot (Highlander's Through Time Book 2) Page 17