Choosing the Highlander

by Jessi Gage

  When the holy rage came, strength welled inside him until he felt he could tear down castle walls barehanded. That strength filled him now. He could no more ignore its summons to act than he could cut off his own arm.

  He looked to Terran. “They are innocent.” He knew this, because his rage wouldn’t have come if the women deserved what was about to happen.

  “Aye.” Terran nodded, resolute. His eyes glowed with rage equal to Wilhelm’s. The pair of them had been called the twin blades of Dornoch since they’d matured enough to do battle. They always went together into skirmishes, and they always emerged the other side.

  They both kent they were about to destroy any chance Wilhelm ever had of wielding influence in parliament.

  “Create a diversion,” he told Terran. “I’ll stall Ruthven.”

  For better or worse, they went their separate ways, Terran into the stables and Wilhelm toward the pyres.

  Chapter 3

  Connie was living a nightmare. Not dreaming. Living.

  An hour ago, she had been anticipating a hearty Scottish breakfast with Leslie. Now, she had been stripped, gagged and bound, and four smelly men were manhandling her onto a stage in a torch-lit courtyard. Despite her ineffective attempts to break free, they were tying her to a stake, of all things, and in front of an apparent audience.

  It reminded her of the historic accounts she’d read of the witch-trials in Salem, Massachusetts when her sister had first embraced Wicca. Connie had a sinking feeling these people wanted to burn her at the stake, a prospect as ridiculous as it was terrifying.

  How can this be happening? Where am I? When am I?

  Despite oceans of improbability, she seemed to have been transported into the past. By roughly five-hundred years, if her minimal cache of historical knowledge could be trusted. She’d come to this conclusion from her uncomfortable but blessedly warm position across the rump of a horse, where the two men whom she had first encountered had tied her like a sack of supplies. Not only had she overheard them arguing about a James in the context of the crown, but they had also mentioned a Queen Maggie, which must be a nickname for Queen Margaret.

  Connie had briefly studied European history while deciding whether to declare her major in Engineering or Theater. Not having a head for dates, the exact years of the Stuart rulers eluded her, but she recalled that two Queen Margarets had been married to two King Jameses in the late fifteenth century. The only reason she remembered was that she’d gotten the question wrong on an exam.

  All other possible explanations for what was happening to her had fallen away one by one as the evidence pointed to a single, reality-altering fact: the world around her wasn’t the anomaly—she was.

  Leslie, what have you done?

  This had to be the result of her sister’s wish. Somehow, Connie had been thrust back in time. Whether the cause had been the summer solstice, Druid’s Temple, the necklace, her sister’s good intentions or some combination thereof, she couldn’t deny she’d been touched by magic.

  It was too crazy to be believed. Yet here she was, fighting for her life in pre-renaissance Europe.

  “Let me go!” she yelled through her gag for the hundredth time. For the hundredth time, she was completely ignored, even by the extravagantly dressed older man who had addressed the crowd in a brogue so thick she could barely make out what he’d said.

  She’d tried offering her original captors a bribe since she’d had some Scots currency in her backpack, but they’d merely stolen her bag and handed her over to a robed man in a stone building they called a kirk. She’d tried threatening action by the U.S. Embassy. This earned her a slap by the robed man, who told her she could take her threats with her to the fiery pit of hell. She had tried to fight the men dragging her to the stake, but the only fruits of her labor were a gag and chafed wrists.

  She couldn’t think of anything more to do, but she couldn’t just give up. It wasn’t only her life at stake but another woman’s too, one who looked to be in much worse shape than she.

  The other woman seemed young, maybe still in her teens, and she was dangerously underweight and very pregnant. Connie wished she’d been able to speak with her, but there had been no opportunity before the men had gagged her.

  When a robed and hooded man came toward her with a lit torch, the temptation to lose hope made her stomach shrivel. She shook her head. “No, please don’t,” she said through her gag. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  The crowd murmured.

  The older man who seemed to be in charge nodded at the hooded man.

  Oh, God. He was lowering the flame to the tinder at her feet.

  She ramped up her struggling. What she wouldn’t give for that knight in shining armor she’d always told Leslie didn’t exist.

  “Halt!” A clear voice rang through the silence as a tall man with impossibly broad shoulders leapt onto the platform.

  The hooded man froze. Flames swirled around the tip of his torch inches from the wood. It was so close, she could smell the burning tar and feel its heat on her shins.

  “What are the charges against these women, Ruthven?” The man was seriously huge. He topped six feet, and it had to be more than just the leather armor making his shoulders appear so wide. He had blond hair cut in a tidy Roman style, and his eyes were a blue so pale, they seemed to glow with silver light as he prowled toward the man who had addressed the crowd.

  The rope was thick and her wrists were bleeding, but hope filled her with the strength to keep testing her bonds.

  “The charge is witchcraft,” the man called Ruthven replied. “This one requires no trial.” He nodded at Connie. “My men witnessed her magic. She brought flame to life in the palm of her hand in an attempt to escape their custody. Furthermore, she was found wearing a hag stone, and in her sack she hides a music box that plays satanic chants. Furthermore, she must be a spy since she carries foreign currency and odd books with renderings of our land’s most strategic forts, some shown in the ruins! As for the other, she has been tried fairly and condemned to a spirit purging for her sins, not the least of which, as anyone can see, is fornication.”

  Connie made eye contact with the blue-eyed man. “Help me!” she cried past her gag. “Those things aren’t magical! I’m not a spy!”

  His furrowed brow showed he couldn’t make out her words. “Seems to me, the lass would like to answer the charges. Has she been given this right?”

  She shook her head vehemently.

  Ruthven sneered and started to argue, but the blue-eyed man shoved past him. Towering over Connie, he held up a knife.

  She shook her head harder and yelled, “Don’t hurt me! I’m innocent!”

  The knife shot toward her face.

  She cringed. The gag tightened like someone had grabbed it. A moment later, it fell away. The blue-eyed man had sliced it off her.

  She met his eyes, like twin pilot lights glowing with the potential to burn everything in their path. Something strange happened in her chest, a tightening like someone had twisted up her insides. She licked her lips. They were numb from cold and chafing.

  “Thank you,” she said. Then she glared at Ruthven. “That wasn’t magic, you idiot. It was a lighter. Inside the compartment is a flammable fluid that ignites when you make a spark with the wheel. The book is a simple travel guide. I’m not a spy. I’m just on vacation. And if that girl is a witch, I’m Nancy Reagan. I don’t care what she’s supposed to have done, and I don’t care what godforsaken year this is. You can’t just burn people!”

  Anger filled her limbs with heat until she barely registered the cold.

  Ruthven pointed at her and sputtered, “Hear that? With her own mouth, she forsakes God! She’s the devil’s whore! Burn her!”

  The crowd shouted their gleeful approval—blood thirsty barbarians, one and all. The man with the torch lowered it to the kindling around her feet.

  “No!” she cried as the fire caught.

  The blue-eyed man started kicking away the ti
nder, but three guards converged on him. He reached over his shoulder like he would grab a weapon, but his hand closed on nothing but air. He growled what must have been a Gaelic curse and took a stance like he intended to fight the guards barehanded while they brandished swords at him.

  The man with the torch lit the logs at the other woman’s feet.

  Enough kindling remained at Connie’s feet that smoke billowed around her, black and clotted with ash that singed her nostrils. “Stop!” she tried to say, but racking coughs stole her speech as the smoke stole her view of what was happening with the blue-eyed man. Her feet were hot. From the freezing cold or from the fire, she couldn’t tell.

  She was going to be burned alive.

  “What will you take for her?” the blue-eyed man yelled. “We’ll strike a bargain for her life!”

  Ruthven’s cruel laugh met her ears. “Oh, no. I’ve let a Murray buy my prisoner once before. This time, I think it shall please me more to let God’s justice run its course.”

  “This is not justice!” the warrior bellowed.

  The song of a blade slicing through air cut through the fog of darkness around her. Then fists hitting flesh. The blue-eyed man was fighting for her.

  That was so unexpected. So heroic.

  Of course, it didn’t improve her odds by much, since he was a single man facing so many. Still, as her vision pixelated and she gasped for air, she found herself oddly comforted. If she had to die away from her family and her time, at least someone was upset about the fact.

  She only hoped he didn’t get too badly hurt for her sake. The thought of punches landing on that clean-shaven jaw stirred a fierce instinct to life in her heart. Pity she wouldn’t get to explore the feeling, since her body was growing heavy and tingly, and she was clearly about to pass out.

  Memories of Leslie’s carefree smile made her descent into unconsciousness rather pleasant. Sorry, Sis. It was a nice wish, but it didn’t quite work out.

  #

  “Took you bloody long enough!” Wilhelm shouted as Terran tossed him the double-edged battle axe he’d been forced to place in Ruthven’s armory before entering the keep.

  Terran leapt from his warhorse to cross swords with one of Ruthven’s guards. “You can thank me later for my brilliant diversion.”

  Terran’s diversion had been a cart he must have found behind the stables. Some noble must have been preparing to depart, because the two horses were already tacked and the cart loaded with trunks. Terran had lit the cargo on fire and sent the horses galloping into the bailey. The flaming cart had scattered the crowd most efficiently.

  In the confusion, Terran had ridden his warhorse onto the platform, sliced the bonds of the pregnant lass and lifted her onto his saddle. Now the poor girl clutched the gelding’s mane, looking bewildered, while the beast pranced and kept an eye on Terran, who jumped down to joined Wilhelm in fighting Ruthven’s guards. Two more men stood between him and the woman he would rescue or die trying to defend.

  He didn’t ken how Terran had managed to obtain the weapons they had been required to surrender to Ruthven’s house master upon being admitted to the keep—mayhap that maid from earlier had helped. As Wilhelm swung his axe to relieve a guard of his sword hand, he resolved never to scold Terran for his dalliances again.

  It had not been his intention to skirmish with Ruthven when he came to Perth—in fact, this was the opposite of what he’d intended—but he couldn’t deny the satisfaction that fueled his strength as he cut down his enemy’s men in battle. Notably, Ruthven, who was the same age as Wilhelm’s father, had retreated into his keep with his guests. The Murray was aging, but even so, he would have fought with his men if his very keep were under siege.

  Ruthven’s idea of justice was a perversion. Even if Wilhelm brought misery on his clan for opposing the blackhearted baron, he did not regret making this stand. He and Terran were in the right by defending these women.

  Mayhap none in attendance here would care, but in the larger scheme of things, all that mattered was that God approved. This Wilhelm kent in his heart, and so he indulged his battle lust.

  His fervor might also have somat to do with the bonny lass tied to the stake. He’d been mesmerized as she’d spoken in her defense and in the defense of her fellow prisoner. Even though he’d scarcely understood her queer speech, he’d kent she spoke true. Her brave spirit steeled his determination to help her.

  She had stirred other things in him as well, softer things that had no place in battle. He would consider those things further when they were well away from Perth.

  As he fought, he’d managed to kick most of the wood away from the base of her stake. She was no longer in danger of being singed. But when her coughing came to a shuddering stop, he worried the smoke had overcome her. He must free her soon and get her away to help cleanse her lungs. Failing her was unthinkable. If he must fight a hundred men to get to her, he would emerge victorious.

  With Terran’s help, he reached the lass and sliced her bonds. She slumped into his arms.

  Fear rarely penetrated his battle lust, but he felt fear now, for her. She was too still, too cold, and too pale. He sheathed his axe and ducked through the smoke with her cradled in his arms.

  At the mouth of the stable, he found his warhorse, Justice, dancing on a tether. Truly, Terran had moved quickly to ready both their mounts and retrieve their weapons. If Wilhelm hadn’t been cert already that he would one day make Terran his second, this night would have confirmed his decision.

  But first, he must see them safely from Ruthven’s lands. And he must find a way to keep them safe as Ruthven would no doubt seek retribution for this flagrant act of rebellion. That meant no matter how his heart longed for home, he must not return to Dronoch, for that would be the first place Ruthven would look.

  Cradling the lass on his lap, he wrapped her in his plaid and took up the reins. As he raced from the bailey, Terran came up alongside him. He held the pregnant lass in front of him in the saddle. The poor thing looked barely alive as her head lolled on his shoulder. Together, they galloped past the seawall and along the River Almond. They must get well away from Perth before they could tend to their charges.

  To Wilhelm’s great relief, he heard no hoof beats behind them.

  “I jammed the stall doors, and set fire to the tack room,” Terran said.

  Wilhelm grinned. Since the stables were stone, the fire would not easily spread. It would cause confusion and slow Ruthven’s pursuit, but wouldn’t harm the horses. “Well done, cousin.”

  “Where will we go? What will become of the women?” Terran kept his eyes straight ahead, but Wilhelm didn’t miss the way he clung to the frail female.

  They both understood what they’d done. In the eyes of the law, they had obstructed justice and instigated a skirmish. They would be considered fugitives until they could speak in their own defense.

  No doubt, Ruthven would bring the case to a noble he had in his pocket, which would put them at a disadvantage unless they found their own magistrate to give a confession to, one who would understand why they’d done what they’d done and rule with leniency.

  “We’ll hide them,” Wilhelm said. “Then we shall send a message to my father. He’ll send Kenrick to aid us.”

  Kenrick was second in authority in Dornoch. He advised Wilhelm’s father and had a knowledge of the crown and parliament that had largely inspired Wilhelm’s interest. If anyone could steer them clear of consequences, ’twould be Kenrick.

  They slowed their horses to veer west. Ruthven would expect them to go north, toward the ferry and toward home, but Wilhelm kent of a place in the northern farmland of Perthshire where they could seek refuge.

  Terran gave Wilhem a worried look. “If he doesna disown you for this spectacle.”

  His father would never disown him. But he was sure to be furious. “Do you regret it?” he asked, kenning his loyal cousin would bravely face the laird’s wrath by his side.

  Terran gazed at the woman in his l
ap. “Nay, cousin.”

  Wilhelm gripped his charge tightly. Her stillness troubled him. “Neither do I.”

  Chapter 4

  Connie hurtled into consciousness with a scream that ravaged her throat. She doubled forward to slap at the flames burning her legs. But there were no flames. There was only darkness and the heavy, hot sensation that her feet had been inserted into an oversized toaster.

  Recollection steamrolled her. The fire. The warrior who had tried to buy her then fought for her. Losing consciousness believing she would never see Leslie again.

  She clutched at the blankets as she sat up in an unfamiliar bed. Her heart pounded so hard it echoed in her ears. Where was she? Where was the warrior?

  He must have succeeded in rescuing her, since she appeared to be alive. She waited to feel rankled that she’d needed rescuing, but she only felt grateful.

  It took a moment of blinking into darkness for the gravity of her situation to reassert itself. Heavens. She’d somehow been transported to the distant past. She’d almost been burned to death.

  Her hands sought out her singed skin under the blankets. Hot. But not blistered. Her wrists were bandaged. Their aching reminded her of the ropes. A sore spot at the back of her neck marked the place where her skin had broken when her captors ripped Leslie’s witch’s stone from her. All minor injuries. It could have been a lot worse.

  Footsteps sounded nearby. She followed the sound with her gaze and noticed a strip of light on the floor that hadn’t been there a moment ago. That must be the door to whatever room she was in. Someone was on the other side.

  She became acutely aware of her nakedness beneath the covers. But never mind that. Whatever she’d been through, she must put it behind her and concentrate on getting home. She was a long way from Druid’s Temple in 1981, and no knight in shining armor was going to help her get back. In this, she instinctively knew, she was on her own.

  She would have to be smart about how she spoke and acted. An American accent and her modern ideas on women’s roles weren’t going to cut it in fifteenth-century Scotland. Her experience with her captors had proven as much.