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

by Rebecca Preston

  “I can’t imagine.”

  Higher still. “Come, now. A man hates to be in debt.”

  “Sounds like your problem, not mine.”

  She kept her breathing steady as he traced an idle line across the place where her thigh met her torso, drifting slowly inwards – then upwards, slowly, creeping beneath the sheet that she’d draped around her shoulders… his fingertips, incredibly gentle for such a powerful man, brushed along her ribcage, grazed the underside of her breast, pulled the rough sheet against her nipples – which were already stiff, the traitors – in a way that sent a shudder down her spine. And then, just as deliberately, his eyes not on her, but rather gazing meditatively out the window as though interested in the clouds that were sliding lazily across the sky, his hand began to descend again, back past her ribs and her navel, back to where her legs had parted slightly, completely accidental, of course—

  “Sure you can’t think of anything?” he murmured, pitching his voice low so it rumbled in that way he knew sent shivers down her spine.

  She sighed, rocked her hips forward ever so slightly – and maddeningly slowly, his fingertip stroked down her outer lips, parting the folds just enough to stir her blood but not enough to give her any satisfaction… Well, she wouldn’t give him any, either. She met his eyes, bit back the sounds her body was itching to make, and raised an eyebrow, challenging.

  He chuckled. Crooked his finger and slid it inside her. Her traitor body, already slick and more than willing to accommodate the intruder as he rubbed with excruciating deliberateness against the inner wall there.

  She forced down the desire to moan, shrugged her shoulders at him.

  He slid another finger inside, pressed against the exact place again – how did he know to do that, exactly? Observant, irritatingly observant – and with his thumb he sought out her clitoris, just to brush against, as if by accident.

  “Fuck,” she whispered before she could stop herself, felt the blood rushing to her face as her whole body tingled. Her hands clenched in the sheets, but still she forced herself to stay still, didn’t move as he toyed with her, brought her closer and closer to the edge until she could barely keep her breathing steady, the entirety of her awareness reduced to his hand on her and inside her – and just as the sensation was beginning to peak, as she could feel the contractions of her muscles, about to send her crashing over that edge – he pulled his hand away.

  She gasped, felt her insides twang almost painfully at the loss, and stared up at him with fury and arousal warring for dominance in her mind.

  “Fine,” she gasped, and lifted her own hand – but before she could finish what he’d started, she felt him grab both her wrists and pin her to the bed, hands above her head and whole body exposed to him. Above her, he was grinning, far too smug, and she tried to yank her arms free to no avail. God, this was incredibly, deeply frustrating – and possibly the hottest thing that had ever happened to her. Pinned to a bed by a huge Scottish highlander, completely at his mercy, her whole body absolutely desperate for him to fuck her brains out – and worse, he had her wrists pinned with one hand and the other was running across her body, tweaking at her nipples and sending bursts of pleasure shooting down her body. It was almost enough to send her over the edge. Almost being the operative word.

  “Eamon,” she ground out, seeking out his honey-colored eyes. “Just—”

  “Hmm?”

  She felt his manhood graze against her thigh, maddeningly close, and bucked her hips up in an attempt to reach it – but to no avail.

  “Fine. Fine. You’re forgiven. Just – come on.”

  “Pleased to hear it,” he murmured, grazing himself against her again.

  She pulled at her trapped hands, pressed her body up against his and growled, “Eamon!”

  Slowly – excruciatingly slowly – he slid inside her. All she wanted was for him to bury himself in her in one thrust – all she’d need to crash over the edge – but he insisted on a pace that was just short of glacial, and none of her efforts could get him to speed up. It could have been minutes or hours that she was there, balanced on the knife-edge of an orgasm, and still he glided in and out of her, his own breath beginning to pick up as he got closer.

  If he comes before I do, she thought, I’m going to murder him.

  He’d released her hands some time before and she clutched uselessly at his back again – no amount of grabbing or pointing or clawing had helped her case, though she imagined he’d have some rather damning injuries when they were done here. Served him right. Sure enough, he was beginning to breathe the way she knew he breathed when he was close to the edge – but still he managed to move so agonizingly slow that she couldn’t get to where she needed to be. He groaned, his forearms tensing, and thrust just once, hard – then pulled back, slid out of her, his cock still hard and straining and the tension in his body revealing how close he’d come.

  “What?” she gasped. “Why?”

  And in one movement, he pushed her knees apart and buried his head between her legs. His hand found its way inside her again, locating that exact spot against the inner wall that sent sparks flying, and everything down there was so furiously, desperately sensitive that the onslaught of his lips and tongue were almost more than she could bear. Within seconds, white light exploded behind her vision and she pulled a pillow over her face to muffle the scream that she couldn’t stop from ripping itself out of her throat. The complete bone-deep contentment that enveloped her on the other side of it all made it impossible to even remember what she’d been annoyed with Eamon about for a long, long while.

  When she came back to herself, he was lying beside her, his arm around her shoulders, and she was cushioned comfortably on his powerful chest.

  “I should get annoyed with you more often,” she murmured.

  He grinned at her, knowing without having to ask that he was forgiven.

  Chapter 25

  They dozed a little longer, but as the sun moved lower in the sky she found herself awake, restless. She dressed, Eamon making a vague sound of objection behind her, and circled the room, not quite sure what to do with herself. Someone – probably Eamon, who was still dozing – had brought up a plate of cold meats and fresh bread, so she made herself a kind of ad-hoc sandwich to quiet her rumbling stomach. Something about the cold in Scotland made her eat more – maybe her body needed more fuel to keep it warm. Either way, she wasn’t complaining. She’d packed on muscle since she’d started riding and sword fighting, and she’d always loved her food.

  “What’s the plan, then?” she asked Eamon finally, after strategically opening and closing the window loudly enough to wake him from his sleep.

  He sat up in bed, looking rather sweetly in disarray, and peered at her through half-closed eyes. “What d’ye mean, what’s the plan? I infiltrate the castle.”

  “You? Alone, you mean?”

  “Easier for me to get in there than ye. I’ve got the excuse of lookin’ to join the guard.”

  “And I’ve got the excuse of wanting to be a house servant, haven’t I? Why is it just automatically you that’s going in?”

  “I thought we discussed this. He’s much less likely to recognize me than he is ye,” Eamon said tiredly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “This way I might get the jump on him.”

  “I still think it should be me. Men underestimate women, you know,” she said, giving him a pointed look. “Someone like you comes in, almost too tall to fit through the door, they’re going to be on their guard. Teodoro’s got a gang of mercenaries, right? They’re all going to be watching you like hawks. Whereas me – skinny little thing, I’ll do the big eyes, the ‘oh sir, please help me I don’t know my way around just yet’ if anyone challenges me. Who’s more likely to be able to get into Teodoro’s private quarters, the newest addition to the guard, or the housekeeper who’s just there to sweep the floor and change the candles?”

  “And who’s more likely to get caught and killed – the new guard, dumb as
a brick but well-meaning, or the literal reincarnation of the women Teodoro had put to death for witchcraft?”

  They glared at each other for a long moment. Eamon was the first to break, sighing and rubbing his forehead again as he leaned back against the wooden headboard. Marianne dropped onto the bed beside him and made a grumbling sound in her chest.

  “I do see the merit in yer plan, lassie,” he said, voice a little gentler. “Ye’d do admirably, I’m sure of it. But I’m just worried about Teodoro recognizin’ ye – or one of his mercenaries spottin’ the resemblance, even. Ye – Elena – ye both really did have a resemblance to him.”

  Marianne shuddered. “Don’t remind me.” She sighed. “And I’m sure you’d be a better fit for infiltrating. My accent draws attention, and there’s a lot of bits and pieces I’m still figuring out about the world – there are things I’m ignorant about that would draw a lot of attention if they came out. But I just – want to get in there, you know? I want to be doing something, not just waiting here hoping it all turns out okay.” What she really wanted was to find Teodoro and wring his ugly, evil neck – but she didn’t need to say that. She could see the same impulse reflected in Eamon’s dark gold eyes.

  He heaved a great sigh, then looked up decisively. “Look, it’s late. Let’s call today done, give the thing some thought, sleep on it and make a decision in the morning. No sense headin’ up there in the late afternoon, anyway – they’re hardly going to want to take on new staff this time o’ day.”

  Something flared in the back of Marianne’s mind – bright and bold, some kind of warning; a flash of fear as real as if she’d been unexpectedly grabbed by the back of the neck in an empty room. What was it? But Eamon was looking at her, and she hesitated, second-guessing that stab of intuition. He’d been working hard, after all – it had been a long ride there, and not an especially restful night for either of them, though a delightful one and no mistake. Could it really hurt to take the night to rest, reflect, and think it over? To start fresh in the morning on a good night’s sleep, all their senses sharp, all their faculties ready for the coming confrontation or whatever it was that was going to eventuate?

  He extended his hand to her, and after a moment’s hesitation, she let him pull her on top of him. And of course, there was plenty in that simple movement to distract herself with. They spent a long, luxurious late afternoon and early evening together, interrupted only by Eamon padding downstairs to bring them up some dinner, and after thoroughly exhausting themselves, they drifted off into a dreamless sleep together. Marianne had forgotten all about the flash of fear she’d felt at the prospect of leaving their plan until the morning.

  That was, until the stomping of booted feet woke her from her sleep, and they both woke in the dead of the night to find their room full of armed men.

  Chapter 26

  Eamon was already awake, on his feet, but unarmed – she could tell by the angle of his head that he was defeated, too many men with too many weapons between him and his longsword, though if he’d been armed she got the feeling it would’ve been a different story. She counted six, though the light wasn’t on her side in trying to discern their foes, and her heart was pounding harder than it usually did when she dreamed of burning alive. They were all dressed in black, huge shadows over their faces from the helmets they wore, and they stood with an easy, contained grace that set them apart from the guards she’d known. These were men with superior training, she sensed – trained killers.

  Teodoro’s mercenaries.

  What had given them away?

  One of them stepped forward and tilted his face so that the candlelight was able to illuminate his features – and Eamon made a shocked sound of betrayal and fury. Marianne gasped, too. He was one of the guards they’d had drinks with that first night – but then he’d been in the same uniform of the others, none of whom were there.

  “Who are ye?” Eamon growled, doing a good job of sounding threatening for a man who wasn’t wearing a single item of clothing.

  “Me?” The man’s voice was light and lilting, and a smile curved his thin lips upward – with the grace of an actor he put a hand to his chest. “How civil of you to ask. Reginald Corby. Father Teodoro’s right-hand man, as it happens, and my, won’t he just be delighted to meet you.” His eyes settled on Marianne, who pulled the sheet around herself, discomfited despite her fury by those pale blue eyes and the way they seemed to stare right through her.

  “You’re in league with that evil man?” she spat, hoping her voice wouldn’t shake. “Do you know what he’s done? The sins he’s guilty of?”

  “Oh, aye, I’m well aware. And I helped him with them, more to the point. I’m not a Catholic, myself, but I know talent when I see it.” He smiled at her, his face as cold and flat as a frozen lake in winter. “No sense appealing to my better nature, lassie. I never did have one.” He turned away, clapped his hands as he strode back to the door. “We’re leaving for the castle immediately where you’ll both be seen by the Father. You have two minutes to dress yourselves. See? Aren’t I kind?”

  “Fuck you,” Eamon snarled, taking a step forward – there was an immediate scraping of metal as the men drew their blades in unison.

  Marianne took a sharp breath in – he flicked his eyes to her, full of frustration and concern for her, and she shook her head a little. They could still get out of this, she tried to tell him without words. Just play along for now. There was still a way they could get the information they wanted…so long as he didn’t antagonize Reginald into having them both killed right then and there.

  They dressed, slowly. Marianne cast a longing look at her sword, one of the men took a single step toward her when she did – they were observant, she’d give them that. Then, quicker than blinking, they were bundled out of their room, down the stairs through the empty tavern, and into the street, where a sleek black coach stood waiting for them. Reginald joined them in the carriage with two of his men – the rest leapt onto horses and rode behind the carriage as it lurched into motion.

  Marianne could see Eamon’s mind ticking – how many of them could he take out unarmed, what were the odds of getting a sword off one of them – and she prayed he wouldn’t try anything stupid.

  “I really ought to thank you both,” Reginald was saying, his lilting voice cruel and mocking. “My poor dear master really has been down in the dumps of late. Things aren’t moving nearly as fast as he’d like, you see. There’s a coven of witches he’s been itching to stamp out for months, but we damned Scots have always been so recalcitrant, haven’t we? They’ve been making things difficult for him, those naughty old MacClarans—”

  “Traitor,” Eamon growed.

  Marianne put a steadying hand on his thigh.

  Reginald affected hurt. “How unkind! I’m as true and loyal a Scotsman as any. It just so happens to be gold that I’m loyal to, and guess who’s got the most of it?” He laughed, a high and awful sound with no mirth in it at all, and rubbed his hands together. “To think – for months he’s been brooding over how to get at those nasty witches holed up in Castle MacClaran. There I am, keeping my ear to the ground like a good little servant, drinking with the castle guard to keep abreast of the gossip – and let me tell you, there’s not much more boring than the gossip guards think worthy of sharing. Downright miserable, I was. And then what happens? Who waltzes straight into my tavern? Only Elena bloody Corso, back from the dead!” He clapped his gloved hands together in delight. “I almost fell off my chair, really I did. I was so worried you’d leave before I could come back with my lovely lads to seize you. But no. Not quite bright enough for that, are you? Clever enough to come back from the dead, but not clever enough to know what’s good for you.” His eyes gleamed. “Can’t wait to see what the Father’s got in store for you—”

  “Enough,” Eamon growled.

  As if in response, the carriage lurched to a stop. Reginald spread his hands and smiled, as if in apology. “But I do rattle on. Let me show you both t
o your quarters.”

  They stepped out of the carriage – and without warning, Marianne was seized around the waist and lifted bodily off the ground. Kicking furiously, she opened her mouth to scream – only to have a fistful of fabric stuffed into it and secured with a rope, gagging her completely. At the same time her hands were bound behind her back and her feet tied together by rope that chafed and scraped at her ankles. Eamon leapt to her defense, but one of the mercenaries materialized behind him and brought a club crashing into his head – he fell to the ground like a sack of flour. Marianne screamed and thrashed against her captors’ grip on her, but to no avail – she was dragged away, barely taking in her surroundings, so fixated was she on the retreating form of Eamon, unconscious on the ground, surrounded by men in black with a bright splash of blood on the side of his head…

  Then the doors to the castle swung shut, and she couldn’t see him any longer. They hurried her down a set of steps – the air grew cold and damp as they descended, turn after turn after turn making her feel dizzy and ill with more than just the shock of what was happening to her. It was almost pitch dark in the room they emerged in, the flame of the torch borne by one of the mercenaries casting only occasional flickering light onto the surroundings. All she could make out was damp stone…and chains.

  They shoved her into some kind of upright, single-occupant cell, or maybe a cage, all rusted steel bars and a single hinged door that slammed shut and bolted. Then both men turned and moved away across the floor, taking the torch with them. Soon, all she could sense was the cold of the dungeon, the slow, distant dripping of what she hoped desperately was water, and the overwhelming fact that she was totally, devastatingly alone.

  Chapter 27

  Maybe she dozed in the dungeon. Maybe her mind just chose to blank out what was happening to give her a few moments’ peace – which was very kind of it. Whatever the case, Marianne didn’t become consciously aware of what was happening again until the clinking of chains made her realize that there was light in the dungeon again – and more men – and, her heart leapt, Eamon, awake again, though there was blood running down the side of his head and staining his shirt. She grabbed the bars, powerless to go to him – the mercenaries were securing his wrists into two huge manacles, and attaching those manacles to the chains that were bolted into the wall. Her heart sank into her toes at the look of complete defeat on his face. This was a man who had fought and lost.