Choosing the Highlander

by Jessi Gage

  “Lass.” A harsh sigh. Wilhelm’s jaw clenched as if he were in pain, but she knew she wasn’t hurting him. It was pleasure bringing him to this edge, this place between helplessness and ecstasy.

  Pride and wonder spurred her to tighten her grip on him. Arms, legs, sex. Everything clenched to hold onto this love.

  “I need more,” he bit out. Planting one foot, he stood smoothly, as if his thighs barely registered her added weight. Swift steps brought their dripping bodies to the bed, where he laid atop her without leaving her body.

  Fusing his mouth with hers, he lifted her bottom with one hand and drove deeper. Pleasure surged as he set a slow, powerful rhythm and rode it unwaveringly until she cried out with release. He followed soon after, but was apparently not done with her.

  Good. She wasn’t done with him either. Never would be.

  While her heart rate returned to normal, he raised up on his arms and took his time observing her damp skin.

  “All mine,” he said, and he began running his hands all over her. “You’ll not leave this bed until I’ve imprinted myself on you. You’ll be feeling me tomorrow, mo luaidh.”

  “I’ll be feeling you for always.”

  “Aye.”

  Wilhelm made love to her a second time. True to his word, he’d made sure she could still feel him even as they lay tangled together afterward. The sensation wasn’t exactly soreness, but that of being well used—in the best possible way. Maybe he’d left more than sensations behind. Maybe he’d left a trace of himself that would grow inside her and strengthen their bond even more.

  As the fire faded, Wilhelm drifted to sleep. Taking pride in the smile she’d put on his face, she lit a candle from the last of the peat flames in the hearth and pulled her travel guide from her backpack.

  Before arriving at the peel tower, she’d considered consulting the book to learn whether there might be a large town nearby where they might find an official to perform a wedding. That point was moot now, but the little book still called to her—probably because it was the only source of information she had about Scotland. Instead of being an outdated reference, though, as books in the library often were when she had something to research, it was a predated reference. Still, she couldn’t help thinking she might find something useful in its pages.

  Snuggled in the blankets beside her sleeping husband, she began her reading with the pages on Dornoch. She would learn everything she could about Wilhelm’s home and the surrounding territory. Knowledge was power. She refused to go to Inverness powerless to help clear her husband’s name.

  Chapter 25

  Wilhelm’s bride had done the lion’s share of the talking yesterday, so while they rode he shared stories about his family. As they made their way north at a brisk walk and oft at a canter, when the road allowed, he described his parents, Alpin and Gormlaith. He told her of Dornoch and the farming his clan was known for since Dornoch was home to some of the most fertile soil in all Scotia.

  The story of when Terran and his younger cousins released a dozen new lambs into the keep had Constance laughing so hard she emitted a distinctively porcine snort. Endearing herself to him even more, she made light of the unladylike chortle rather than exhibit shame.

  Recovering herself, she beamed at him, his rosy-cheeked bride. By all that was holy, he loved her.

  Her eyes twinkled in the weak sunlight of the morning. They rode their own horses today, needing to travel swiftly if they were to make Inverness by nightfall. “Gosh, I haven’t laughed that hard since—” Her good humor came to an abrupt halt.

  He lusted to have her in his arms. Contenting himself with bringing Justice alongside her, he guessed, “Your sister?”

  She nodded.

  He gave her the time to have what thoughts she would. Time would ease the pain she must be feeling, but ’twould never completely heal. He’d lost a sister as well.

  “When I was a boy of twelve, I watched helplessly while my sister died of fever. Marianne. She’d been seven. She, Terran, and I were thick as thieves.”

  Constance reached across the space between them to hold his hand. “I’m sorry.”

  “Death is part of life. Unfortunately, kenning that does not a thing to ease the pain when it strikes close to the heart.”

  He squeezed her hand. How much more devastating would it be to lose a sister one had shared a womb with, especially after living well into adulthood together?

  “Leslie was the one who sent me here,” Constance said, releasing his hand. She stared ahead as though looking into the past.

  He held his breath, desperate to hear more but hesitant to speak. He sensed she needed to set her own pace in recounting the magic that brought her to him.

  “She didn’t mean to.” She smiled to herself, and the affection in it warmed his heart. This smile was for her sister. “It was dawn on summer solstice. I’d just arrived in Scotland the evening before. I was exhausted—I’d slept on the plane, but still, something about air travel does that to you. Makes you so weary.” She shook her head. “Traveling through time was less draining, if you can believe it.” She bit her lip, as if nervous about putting such things into words.

  “Go on, lass. ’Tis only you and me here.”

  “And the horses.”

  “They won’t tell.”

  She looked at him for the first time in several minutes. A thrill of connection tugged on his viscera. This woman was part of him now. She was his to care for. His to cherish. He would protect her secrets with his life.

  The worry smoothed from her face. “In the future, people love visiting ancient sites. I don’t know if it’s that way here, but in my time, there’s something so whimsical and exciting about seeing a castle up close and getting to go inside. And the stone formations—they’re even older than the castles and ruins tourists pay to see. Maybe it’s a desire to connect with humanity’s past. Or the fantasy of wondering why our ancestors constructed such places.

  “You see, my country isn’t very old. The land existed, of course, but Europeans didn’t come to it until…well, at the moment, right now, the only people there are the natives, and to my knowledge, they didn’t build castles. I think there are some examples of stone formations in North America, but I’ve never been to one. They’re certainly not as prominent as the ones in Europe.”

  He longed to ask more about her country and when Europeans would begin traveling there, but he made himself hold his tongue. She was telling him of her last moments in the future. This story was precious to her, and therefore it was precious to him. Her choosing to share it honored him greatly.

  “At any rate, I was looking forward to seeing structures and ruins built so long ago. Leslie had been here—in Scotland—for several weeks already. The novelty of the historic feel had long worn off for her. But she was positively giddy over going to Druid’s Temple on the morning of the solstice and not because it’s one of the oldest stone circles in Europe.”

  She sighed. “Leslie is—well, I suppose in this day she would be called a witch.”

  Shock made his hands tense on the reins.

  “She isn’t one,” she hurried to add. “I mean, it’s different in my time. What Leslie’s doing—exploring Wicca—it’s a fad, a trend that will fade. She’s just like that—you know, an explorer. She tries different fads and ingratiates herself with others who share the same inclinations. She’s a free spirit. I don’t think she’s ever actually done anything magical. In my time, at least for Leslie, it was more about appreciating the Earth and nature, in using herbs for health and living naturally. In loving others. There was no malice in it.”

  Her tone leaned towards defensiveness, as if she expected him to condemn her sister, when in fact, the “free spirit” she described reminded him of his mother. Gormlaith loved nature. She spent more time outdoors than in, tending her gardens, walking the hills, riding her beloved mare, and visiting with the villagers. She often delivered fresh herbs and tea mixes to the sick among their clan. Constance wou
ld like her, Wilhelm suspected. He had no doubt his mother would welcome Constance and love her like a daughter.

  “I find naught offensive about what ye describe, lass. I am not one of those men quick to condemn a woman of witchcraft simply because she finds pleasure in the bounties of the Earth. I believe God gave us the Earth and is pleased when we enjoy it.”

  She released a pent-up breath. “You’re so level-headed. I wasn’t sure what you’d think of Leslie if I told you about the Wicca, but I’m relieved you aren’t flinging Scripture at me.”

  “Of course not. I would have liked to meet your sister.”

  “I would have liked that too.”

  They rode for a while in silence before she picked up her story. “Leslie had been to a shop in Inverness,” she said, and the words held a weight he’d not noticed in the rest of her tale. “She told me about the shopkeeper while we waited for the sunrise that morning. He was French, she said, and she sensed something magical about him. He gave her this necklace with a stone on it. Leslie called it a witch’s stone.”

  Ah. At the gathering, Ruthven had accused Constance of wearing a hag stone. Legend warned that to some, such stones could be lucky. To others, they would bring curses. Like Constance, Wilhelm didn’t put much stock in magic, but he did not deny that forces of good and evil worked among mortals for their own purposes. He didn’t doubt that this “witch’s stone” had played a part in the magic Constance had experienced. It certainly would have played a part in her arrest. Any woman caught wearing a hag stone would be presumed a witch and treated accordingly.

  Could Constance have been spared her ill treatment at Ruthven’s hands if her sister had never visited that shop? Mayhap. But mayhap she never would have come here at all without it.

  “He said if she made a wish at sunrise on the solstice, fate might grant it.” Constance continued her story. “There was some business about a pure heart.” She made a scoffing noise, but there was humor in it. “I’ve never really believed in spells and wishes and magic. But I’m starting to. I think.”

  Her story fascinated him near to the point of speechlessness. To think, his wife’s presence in his life came down to a wish made by her twin, a hag stone, and a solstice. Which of the factors were vital? All of them? Or mayhap none? Mayhap fate would have brought Constance to him without the help of her sister and the objects of lore. He would like to think that their souls had called to each other through time and that no matter the trappings, they would have found each other eventually.

  But what if he’d come within a hair’s breadth of never meeting her?

  He forced a casual tone. “Hard no’ to believe in magic when you’ve been subject to it, aye?”

  “Exactly. At a certain point, it becomes more logical to accept it than to continue denying the possibility of its existence.”

  “You mentioned your sister made a wish,” he said, hoping she would tell him what the wish had been. Had Leslie hoped for her sister’s wealth, good health, or long life?”

  “Leslie wished that I would know love. She wanted me to be happy.” Her eyes shiny, she held his gaze. “I think her wish came true.”

  #

  Connie had expected Inverness to have changed a lot in five hundred years, but she hadn’t expected not to recognize a single feature. When Wilhelm announced well after dark that they’d arrived in the city, she’d blinked and tried to match the sights around her to what she’d seen briefly before the hike with Leslie.

  True, she’d spent precious little time in the city. The cab Leslie had taken to meet her at the airport had shuttled her quickly to their bed and breakfast, and they’d biked out of the city nearly as quickly the morning of their hike. Both excursions had occurred during the dark night hours, as did this one. Logic suggested she might recognize something, a land feature, a prominent old structure, but no. Nothing registered as same.

  Gone were the twin towers of St. Andrew’s Cathedral on the western bank of the River Ness, spotlights highlighting their cubical shape. Missing on the other side of the river was the sandstone Inverness Castle. Absent were the modern buildings dotted among the older stone row houses and the spires of churches that had made the skyline so wonderfully eclectic.

  Even the River Ness seemed different. The absence of city lights reflecting off its inky surface made it difficult to decipher water from shore. The result was an unsettling sensation that the river sent black tendrils into the city, between the buildings and into the streets.

  As they rode, she kept searching for some familiar landmark. As far as she could tell, the only architectural feature of note was a single stone tower with a thatched roof to the north. As she and Wilhelm made their way to the town center, the tower grew closer.

  “Is that where we’re going?” she asked. She kept her voice quiet. It seemed the right thing to do. Every so often, she would spot a horse and cart on the side of the street or a person coming or going from one of the buildings, but the streets were largely free from traffic.

  “That is the citadel,” Wilhelm said. “We are looking for an inn I’ve been to before that is near the tower. We’ll meet my father’s second there. Kenrick. He’ll advise us.” His confident voice carried in the night.

  How oddly quiet a medieval city was compared to a modern city. There were so few sounds to compete with the human voice, only hoof beats and the creaking of boats docked in the river. As the streets grew broader and the light from inhabited dwellings more frequent, the noise multiplied. Fiddle music tempted her to tap her fingers on the reins, and the murmur of conversation bubbled from inside a place that must be a tavern.

  Honesty plodded along, his neck low and sweaty. The horses had walked far today. She and Wilhelm had pushed them, eager to get to Inverness. The horses, Wilhelm had assured her, would be pampered in the next few days. He planned to buy them private stalls and daily attention from a stable boy during their stay.

  Connie patted Honesty. “A little farther and you’ll have a nice rest.” To Wilhelm she said, “I’ll be relieved when this is all behind us.”

  “Aye, lass. So shall I. So shall I.”

  With the citadel looming to their right, Wilhelm led the way under a stone arch and into a courtyard formed by the walls of three separate buildings. One was a wooden structure attached to the citadel, like an addition built on as the need for more space arose. From so close to the tower, she could make out spikes jutting from its second story, as if daring intruders to attempt to scale the wall.

  Another side of the courtyard was made up of a three-story building she assumed was the inn. The open windows of the lower level let out the sounds of raucous banter and sent light angling over the cobblestones.

  The third wall of the courtyard was a bare two-stories of brick, probably the rear of a row of shops that fronted a neighboring street. An alley between the inn and the bare wall was strewn with straw. It must lead to stables that served the inn.

  By daylight, the little courtyard might be quaint, but by night, the jagged shadows left her feeling uneasy.

  Wilhelm drew Justice to a stop. “Here we are.” He dismounted and helped her down in the way that had become automatic for them. He held her like that for a minute, his armor a shield in front of her, Honesty a wall of safety behind her.

  He cupped her head and spoke low into her ear. “Wait here with the horses. I doona like the sound of the party inside. I’ll rent our room and hire a stable boy, then meet you here and bring you in a back way.”

  “Be careful.” The warning came naturally. A wife’s worrying instinct, perhaps?

  He positioned her between Justice and Honesty, effectively hiding her from sight from anyone who might happen by on the street. With a soft kiss on her lips, he left her to go inside.

  The laughter from the inn’s lower floor swelled when he opened the door. In the relative quiet once the door closed, a voice came from the direction of the bare wall.

  “Good evening, Madame.”

  She started.
Peeking around Justice, she saw she’d been mistaken. It wasn’t a bare wall. Rather, there was a lone door, maybe the back entrance to one of the shops. She must have missed it when it had been closed, but now, with the door open and letting light into the courtyard, she could see it clear as day.

  A man stood on the threshold, keeping the door open with one arm, a man she hadn’t been certain was real—until now. Leslie’s shopkeeper.

  Chapter 26

  “It’s you,” Connie stated, forgetting her faux British accent.

  The intimate feel of the square allowed for a conversational volume. Since there didn’t appear many places for a person to hide themselves, the risk of someone eavesdropping and catching her foreign dialect was minimal. Still, she would be more careful.

  “Oui,” the shopkeeper replied, a twinkle in his onyx eyes. “I am me. This much I know to be true.” He was dressed slightly more pedestrian than the last time she’d seen him. Instead of ethereal silk, he wore black, high-waisted trousers and a shirt with a flouncy jabot and cuffs.

  His presence unnerved her. It also reassured her. She stepped out from between the horses. “Is this where your shop is located, then?”

  “One of the locales, oui.”

  “Why—” She licked her lips. “Why are you here? Now, I mean? Is everything all right with Leslie?”

  “An astute query, Madame. As far as I know, your dear sister is safe. It is you I have come to see tonight. Come in, s'il vous plaît. I’ve prepared tea for you. You must be famished after your journey.” He motioned into his shop.

  She glanced toward the inn. “Wilhelm will be out any minute. He would miss me. I’ll come by after we’ve settled the horses.” She wouldn’t leave her husband wondering where she’d gone.

  His expression grew tense. “I’m afraid that will not do. It must be now. This very minute.”