Highlander Protected: A Scottish Time Travel Romance (Highlander In Time Book 3)

by Rebecca Preston

  With a shriek, Marianne sat bolt upright in bed. The fire was ash and the cold grey light of dawn had filled the room, but still the feeling lingered in her body. She lowered herself back to the warmth of the cot, heart pounding, disturbed by the intensity of the dream. Had it been a dream? Dreams didn’t usually involve such acute sensations – she could actually remember her body falling apart, the flesh blackened and falling away from her bones as though it was still happening. Shuddering, she rubbed her arms and wiggled her toes, stretched as though to reassure herself that her body was still there, still intact.

  She’d never set much store by dreams. Was this just a manifestation of her anxiety at being somewhere so overwhelmingly new, so far from her home and friends and family? Not that family had ever been a source of much comfort… Her mind, panicking at danger, grabbed the last thing she’d been looking at before she’d fallen asleep and turned it into a nightmare. A logical explanation, perhaps…but it didn’t quite set her mind at ease. Logic didn’t have a huge amount to do with the last twenty-four hours of her life. It was impossible to get back to sleep, so Marianne got up and dressed herself, this time in a tunic and pair of comfortable trousers. Small mercies at least that Cora’s clothes more or less fit her – she was taller than her cousin, but the clothes seemed to run long. Perhaps they were men’s trousers?

  The rest of the women she’d seen in the castle had been wearing skirts and dresses. Still, today she wanted to go for a walk outside the castle walls, and she wasn’t interested in getting her ankles eaten alive by whatever insects made Scotland their home. Dolores was already gone – her bed was empty when Marianne checked it.

  That minor mystery was resolved when she headed for the Great Hall, which was already a hive of activity although the sun was barely in the sky. Servants moved back and forth at a brisk pace, setting the tables, bringing great steaming platters of food out for the morning meal. And sure enough, the inhabitants of the castle were filtering into the hall for breakfast, talking and laughing with one another. For Marianne, who generally preferred to get up late, this was a bit of an adjustment – it was a shock to see so many bright and smiling faces at a time she was more used to staying up until, not getting up before.

  She found Cora and ate with her and Ian, taking a backseat in the conversation and focusing on her breakfast. They were arguing about Eamon, about what should be done with him – it seemed some of the people of the village wanted him banished not only from the castle, but from the lands surrounding it as well, as he’d been making a nuisance of himself in the village since his exile had come into effect.

  “He’ll settle down eventually,” Ian was saying, mouth full of bacon. “I know him. He’s got a hot temper that’s slow to cool down, but once it does he’ll go to ground like a hibernating bear. Who knows, he might make something useful of himself. Maybe start a farm – he’s strong as an ox, wouldn’t be hard for him to make an honest living that way.”

  “There’s no way Colin will allow him back at the castle? Even after a year’s exile or so?” Cora wanted to know. She had filled her plate with more of the pastries Marianne remembered being brought to her the previous afternoon – it already seemed like lifetimes ago, even though it had been scarcely half a day.

  “Not without hearing where he actually was during the brawl,” Ian said regretfully.

  “So you believe him? That he wasn’t there?” Marianne couldn’t help but interject.

  The tanist looked up at her curiously, but answered the question. “I know my cousin. If he’d killed a man by accident, he’d own up to it, fair and square. There’s something he’s not telling us.”

  “But Colin can’t just take him on his word,” Cora sighed, finishing her pastry and eyeing another. “So he’s stuck.”

  “What d’you intend to get up to today, Miss Marianne?” Ian enquired, eyes twinkling. “There’s a lot to explore. Perhaps you’d like to ride down to the village and have a look around? We can organize a horse if you’re interested.”

  “I’m not sure I remember how to ride,” Marianne admitted, a little sheepishly. “I took a few lessons as a young girl, but it’s been a very long time.”

  “I’ll give you lessons,” Cora offered. “It’s kind of important around here. It’s not like you can drive.”

  Marianne sighed. “I just got my license renewed, too. What a waste.”

  Ian chuckled. “Sometimes I wish I knew what you three were talking about. But I’m not sure I could handle it.”

  They parted ways after breakfast, Marianne wandering out in the general direction of the front gates. She still felt discomfited about the dream she’d had – something about it was just lingering in her consciousness – but something had stopped her from talking about it with Cora and Ian. She didn’t want them to think she was frightened or hysterical. After all, it had just been a bad dream. She was going to need to be made of tougher stuff than that if she was going to survive for any length of time out there in the Scottish wilds. It was easy enough to sidle out of the gate – it seemed that Colin had spread the word that a cousin of Cora’s had come to stay, and she got courteous nods from the guards on her way out. The air was fresh and clear this early in the morning, and the sun was casting weak but warming light down on her skin. She turned down the road, heading the opposite way than she’d come from the previous afternoon, and within a few minutes of walking the trees at either side of the road began to thin. Without the trees, she could see the terrain beyond them – it was hilly and rocky right to the horizon, and seemed to be emanating a dull purple glow that she realized to her delight came from heather. She’d heard so much about the moors of Scotland – and here she was. What was the harm in doing a bit of exploring?

  The unpleasant dream began to recede from the forefront of her mind as she explored the moors, grateful for the thick pair of boots Cora had delivered along with her clothing. The landscape was treacherous, with rabbit holes and uneven footing that could easily twist an unwary ankle, but it was so breathtakingly beautiful that Marianne didn’t mind. She let her mind settle as she explored, wandering past streams and little ponds, occasionally disturbing birds in the undergrowth. The sun climbed higher and higher, warming her as it went, though the chill in the air stopped her from feeling uncomfortable or overheated.

  A little thirsty, she knelt and drank from a crystal clear stream, then surveyed the beautiful surroundings – before realizing with a jolt that the road was completely out of sight and she’d lost track entirely of which direction she’d come from. Ordering herself not to panic, Marianne scanned the horizon for landmarks. She couldn’t see the castle, or the road that lead to it – she’d been walking for quite some time with it behind her, and it must have slipped behind a hill, or a rocky outcrop, or a copse of trees…the more she studied her surroundings, the less idea she had of where she’d come from. The castle could have been in any one of a dozen directions, and she had no way of knowing which would bring her closer to safety – and which would send her further out into the wilderness, with no food or supplies, and no protection against the freezing night air...

  “Well, fuck,” she said aloud, hands on her hips, and almost screamed as a burst of laughter sounded from a nearby pile of rocks. On high alert, she staggered back from it, raising the branch she’d been using as a walking stick in warning to the unseen source of the laughter. “Who’s there? Show yourself,” she demanded, trying to sound more confident than she felt.

  A man stepped out from behind the pile of rocks, his hands raised in the air a little sheepishly, and to Marianne’s shock, she recognized him. It was Eamon MacClaran – still scruffy, still unshaven, though he seemed a little more alert than he had the day before. A few less drinks today, perhaps – though the redness of his eyes and the ruddy cast to his complexion suggested a hangover. What on earth was he doing out here in the wilderness? Had he been following her?

  “Eamon, isn’t it?” she said, and felt a peculiar impulse to bow. Did the
y bow, in Scotland? Was that polite?

  However, the man before her didn’t seem too concerned about being polite. He was staring at her as if he’d seen a ghost – staring at her, in fact, in much the same way as Dolores had stared at her the previous afternoon. As if he recognized her, somehow – and like that recognition was causing him great suffering. “God,” he said finally, voice hoarse. “Ye really do —” Seeming to remember himself, he started, and cleared his throat. “Eamon, aye, that’s me. Good morning, Miss.”

  “Why are you following me?” she asked, suspicious.

  He frowned at her. “Following ye? I saw ye drift off the main road and wander off into the moors as if ye had a death wish. Thought I’d follow along in case ye got yerself lost. Or would ye prefer to be left to starve to death and have yer bones picked clean by foxes?”

  “I’m not lost.”

  “Which way to the castle, then?”

  Meeting his gaze sternly, Marianne pointed in an absolutely random direction.

  Eamon quirked an eyebrow. “Ye sure about that?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Well, don’t let me stop you.”

  They stood in that stalemate for a minute or two before Marianne relented. “Fine. I’m lost.”

  “Thought so. Castle’s that way.” Eamon jerked his head in the opposite direction than Marianne had pointed, and she laughed. “How’d ye know my name?” he asked.

  “I saw you at the castle yesterday. Pleading your case to the Laird.”

  “Ah. Not my best work.” There was something very endearing about the rueful way he smiled.

  Now that her adrenalin was beginning to settle, Marianne felt a lot more warmly toward him. “I’m Marianne, by the way. A cousin of Cora’s.”

  “Good to meet you, Marianne. Would you like me to escort you back to the castle? It’d be a shame to miss lunch. And I think I can take you as far as the gates – so long as Colin’s not extended his ban.” There was a splash of real anger there, a bitter cast to his features.

  Marianne hesitated, but the landscape around her was treacherous, and she’d already forgotten which direction he’d indicated the castle was in. “Thank you.”

  Chapter 8

  They picked their way through the heather and the rocks, occasionally disturbing small animals as they made their careful way across the moors. Eamon walked with great thumping steps, crushing the plant life beneath his boots as though it had personally offended him – Marianne tried to tread lightly, but felt a little ridiculous stepping around flowers when her companion seemed determined to do as much damage as possible with every step.

  His eyes were fixed on the ground ahead of him, avoiding rocks and uneven ground, and the silence between them was beginning to feel uneasy. If she’d known he was going to be such poor company she’d have seriously considered taking a chance on a random direction. At least the weather was beautiful. She considered remarking on it, but realized she had no idea what the weather was usually like, and it wouldn’t do to arouse his suspicions any more than they clearly already had been with the way he’d stared at her.

  What was that, she wondered? Had he known the mysterious Elena? It made sense, if she and her mother had lived in the village. Maybe he could give her a little more information about the girl – who she’d been, what had happened to her. Who her father was. Dolores’ hard refusal to talk about that had tickled Marianne’s curiosity – she knew plenty about unfortunate father figures, after all. But she didn’t want to arouse his suspicion by just asking openly.

  “What were you going to say?” she asked, finally, when the silence had grown too heavy to bear.

  Eamon grunted, looking up from a rock he was traversing for a moment before continuing on his destructive path through the heather.

  “When you saw me. You said ‘You really do —’ and then broke off. What were you going to say?”

  “Oh.”

  She kept a sharp eye on him, trying to keep him in a favorable section of her peripheral vision – when people thought you weren’t looking at them they tended to give a lot away. His face crumpled a little, some of the stubborn set of his jaw dissolving, his eyes flicking up to the point on the horizon people tended to look at when they were remembering things.

  “I was going to say — ye really do look like her.”

  “Her?”

  “Someone I used to know.”

  “Have you been talking to Dolores?”

  He stopped walking, looked up at her sharply, and she tried to keep her expression neutral, cursing herself for giving away too much information. She’d aroused his suspicion, now – but suspicion of what?

  “Dolores?”

  “She recognized me too,” Marianne said, trying to sound as casual as possible, and leaned against a rock as though they were just taking a short break from their hike. “When I arrived, she called me another name. I guess I’ve just got one of those faces.”

  “Dolores was her mother,” he said gruffly, crouching down to re-tie his boot laces although the quick glance Marianne darted down at his shoes told her they weren’t in need of tying. “Elena Corso, her name was. She really did look just like ye, it’s uncanny. Anyone’d think she was back from the dead.”

  There it was – Marianne tried not to look triumphant at this revelation, especially given the way his gruff voice had caught – just slightly – on the word ‘dead’. Elena Corso, this mysterious woman who looked just like her – who was, if what Cora had said about her own ancestor held true for Marianne as well, a distant relative – she had died, somehow. Not well, Marianne would imagine – not in her early twenties, as it seemed she had been.

  Did that mean Marianne had been brought back to take her place?

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” she murmured now, and he looked up again, as if only just remembering she was there. Hard to tell if the redness of his face was emotion, exertion, or just the hangover – he made a dismissive sound in his throat and stood up.

  “C’mon. We’d better get moving if ye want to be back by lunch time. Wee slip of a thing like ye can’t afford to miss many meals.”

  Marianne stared after him, not sure whether to be insulted or not – she’d always been rather happy with her tall, slender figure. But of course – it was the fifteenth century. There were different standards of beauty these days. No wonder Cora had been tucking into those pastries with such relish – her voluptuous figure was probably considered ideal here. It had been considered pretty ideal throughout their youth, too, Marianne reflected sourly, stomping through the heather after Eamon. How many times had she been hanging out with her cousin at the mall, checking out boys, feeling her heart flutter as a cute one approached her – only to ask her to introduce him to the ‘pretty girl’ she was with?

  Hold on a minute. How on earth have I given this drunken lout of a Scotsman the power to make me feel self-conscious about my body? Annoyed with herself now as well as with Eamon, she sped up, irritated by the pace he was setting and perversely determined to prove that she was just as quick as he was. Unfortunately, it wasn’t long before her foot caught in what must have been a rabbit hole and she fell, with a rather undignified screech – but a strong hand seized her by the forearm and yanked her upright before she could topple into the heather completely. Thrown off-balance, she lurched back the other way and found herself up against Eamon’s broad chest. Marianne was a tall woman, and very unused to men looming over her the way that Eamon did – not only was he about twice her width, he dwarfed her. There was no softness to him, either – no gently yielding beer belly, just a solid slab of muscle. For a moment, she couldn’t help picturing him with a sword in his hand, bellowing at his foes on the battlefield, and a thrill of something that wasn’t quite fear ran down her spine. With a start, she realized she’d been staring up at him – and he down at her, still holding her by the forearm, his eyes tracing her features with a kind of wonder. She hadn’t been close enough to see them properly before – in the dark of
the hall, they’d seemed a dull brown, but here in the light she could see they were closer to the color of honey, a rich, burnished gold. Beautiful, really. The scent of him, up close, wasn’t nearly as unpleasant as she’d expected – sure, there was the old stale smell of whiskey, but beneath that, something else, something much more pleasant —

  Gods’ sake, Marianne, pull yourself together. He’s staring at Elena, not you, she chided herself, cleared her throat, and dropped her eyes.

  Eamon dropped her arm as though he’d been stung, took a hurried step back and almost fell into the heather on the side of the path himself, mumbling apologies. “Y’alright?”

  “Yes, fine, thank you.”

  “Didn’t twist yer ankle or anythin’?”

  “No, no, I’m fine, just clumsy. Good catch,” she added, smiling. He was still staring at her, one hand over his mouth. “Are you okay?”

  “No,” he breathed, then seemed to shake himself awake. “Sorry. It’s – you really do look exactly like her. I know I keep saying that, but … it’s very strange. You think someone’s gone, you move on with your life, and then...” He shrugged, gesturing at her with a look in his eyes she couldn’t quite figure out.

  “What was she to you?” she asked, gently – because men didn’t look at her like that very often, and she didn’t like how profound an effect it was having on her, and it felt important to remind everyone present that the woman in question was Elena, not Marianne.