Brennus (Immortal Highlander, Clan Skaraven Book 1): A Scottish Time Travel Romance

by Hazel Hunter

  “You’ll no’ learn to cast spells until after you’re pledged, no matter how long you tag-tail after the masters,” Gwyn had told him one day as they gathered herbs for an ovate teaching them healing potions. “They dinnae trust the uninitiated with proper magics.” He waggled his brows. “But I ken a trick or two.”

  Bhaltair remembered how he’d sniffed his contempt and turned away from him, only to find himself facing a monstrous black and white serpent with blazing red eyes and fangs dripping venom. The creature had to be twenty feet long, and loomed up over him as if it meant to devour him with a single bite.

  Gwyn came to stand beside him. “’Tis really no’ so grand.” He tossed some myrtle at the snake, which hissed and shrank down to a tiny baby adder, which wriggled away into the grass. “My gran taught me that one to scare wolves away from our herds.”

  “We’re no’ permitted to use tribe magic,” Bhaltair said, still staring after the snake. “You could be sent home for such.”

  “Aye, if you tell.” Gwyn grinned. “Shall I teach you the spell, then?”

  They had been inseparable after that day, Bhaltair remembered as he blew out the lamps and made his way to his bed chamber. He stopped outside the guest room to listen for a moment, and heard a soft sobbing. He rested his hand against the door, wishing he could do anything to comfort the lass.

  Why had Gwyn tasked her to come to him? Their friendship had been long and filled with much affection, but Oriana was far too young and unskilled to be away from her tribe. Surely he could have left instructions with an acolyte, or even an ovate.

  Bhaltair slept fitfully until the hour just before dawn, when he abandoned his bed and went to brew a morning blend with some yarrow for his aching head. He knew in their former lifetime the Skaraven had built a secret stronghold somewhere in the Red Hill Mountains, but no one had ever seen it or knew of its location. Since all of the clan’s mortal allies had died long ago, he would have to journey south to the border of the old Skaraven territory. There he might arrange a meeting with the only druid ally left to him—if the man chose to answer his summons.

  “Fair morning, Master Flen,” Oriana said. She came into the kitchen, her hair in beribboned braids and her eyes still faintly swollen from weeping. “How good that smells.”

  “’Twill taste better than the whiskey, at least.” He poured a mug for her, adding a bit of honey to sweeten the brew. “So tell me, will the sisters who take you in begin your training soon?”

  “I dinnae reckon so. They tend the herds for the tribe.” She forced a smile. “I do like sheep, and I’m sure I shall learn much about caring for them.”

  To put the lass to work as a shepherdess when she had such power seemed ridiculous to him. “Oriana, does your tribe have another speak-seer among them?”

  “No, Master,” she admitted. “I think Grandfather meant to foster me to another tribe for my training. He spoke of an old friend from his first incarnation.”

  Here was the true reason the lass had been sent to him. “That would be me, my dear one.” As her eyes widened he patted her hand. “Now it comes clear to me why we were brought together. Gwyn intended for me to teach you.”

  She paled. “Oh, Master, never say ’tis such. I’m no’ worthy of your wisdom. I– I ken naught of magic.”

  “’Tis why I must teach you, Oriana.” He had never taken an acolyte so young, nor a female, but given the potential of her power she sorely needed his guidance. She also deserved to play a part in seeking justice for Gwyn’s murder. “I must journey today to the southern highlands to find the Skaraven Clan. ’Twill no’ be an easy or pleasant excursion, but ’twas your grandfather’s wish that I entreat them for help. If you agree to become my acolyte, you may accompany me. I shall send word to your tribe that I shall see to your care and training from this day forth.”

  Instead of showing fear or doubt, her expression filled with joy. “Oh, Master Flen, ’tis more than I dared ever hope.”

  Bhaltair gave her a benevolent smile. “Do you ken how to pledge yourself to me?”

  “I do.” She knelt down before him. “I vow to serve you, Bhaltair Flen. Ever at your side, always prepared to learn from you, so that I might do as the Gods will.”

  The pledge she spoke was not exactly correct, but she was young, and Bhaltair heard the deep emotion in every word. Not even Cailean, bless his heart, had sounded so fervent.

  “There, now.” He gently helped her up from the floor. “Let us break our fast together, and then we shall prepare for our journey.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  LIVING WITH A hundred huge warriors in a medieval stronghold, Althea soon discovered, was a bit like being a mouse in a maze filled with tigers.

  At least the men were trying to be polite about her presence. Most of the clan treated her as if she were visiting royalty, bowing and shifting out of her way whenever she came near any of them. She definitely felt dwarfed by every Skaraven, but it was their collective silence that unnerved her much more than their size. The clan did almost everything without saying a word, and often employed odd hand signals when they communicated with each other. She guessed they had been trained not to speak unless absolutely necessary.

  Then there was the fact that she was the only female at Dun Mor. Whenever she joined the clan in any area the awareness of her presence showed in an instant of stillness among the men, as if she’d turned them to stone. When they came near her, they behaved the way a bomb squad officer would approach a ticking suitcase left in a high-traffic area. Yet she would swear that they weren’t scared of her—more like they were afraid of themselves.

  Given their behavior, Althea fully believed that the Skaraven had been forbidden to interact with any women. Yet she also suspected that there was more behind the bizarre taboo than Brennus had told her.

  She’d expected to leave on the rescue mission right away, until she learned that the giants’ encampment was on the other side of Scotland.

  “That can’t be right,” she told Brennus after he showed her the location on a parchment map the shaman had drawn. “Ruadri said you brought me back here the same night I escaped. You couldn’t carry me a hundred miles in a couple of hours.”

  “I didnae walk, my lady.” The chieftain rolled up the map. “When the time comes to return there, I shall show you how we travelled.”

  “Will you also explain why your clan has almost nothing but the clothes on their backs?” She gestured around them. “Or how you could have built this stronghold when it’s at least a thousand years old? Maybe you could also clarify the reason your tattoo—excuse me, your battle spirit—chose me, and exactly for what that would require the raven-shaped scars on my back.”

  He smiled a little. “You wouldnae believe it.”

  Talking to the chieftain always felt like trying to open a safe with the combination locked inside. “I believe that I was taken from the twenty-first century by giant immortals made of wood and a couple of mad druids, who dragged me through time seven hundred years for no reason whatsoever,” Althea reminded him. “Go ahead, try me.”

  “You think I dinnae ken what you’ve endured?” His expression grew remote. “’Tis no’ so different than what I and my clan have borne. Aye, and more than you may ever fathom.”

  “Then tell me,” she urged, moving closer to him. “I want to understand all of this, and I don’t.” She couldn’t stop herself from reaching for his hand. “You can trust me with your secrets.”

  Brennus caught her wrist, watching her eyes as he bent his head to her hand. Althea thought he meant to kiss her palm, but he closed his eyes and breathed in.

  “Here is one secret: I had a vision of you before we met,” he said, his breath warming her flesh. “I saw you in the forest, gathering fern. I’d never beheld such loveliness as yours, Althea. ’Twas so bewitching that I couldnae move.”

  She touched his face. “I saw you too, or something like you. A shadow in the air.” She dragged in a breath. “How can you do this
to me when I’m so angry? All I want to do…but I can’t. We can’t.” She stepped back to break the contact between them. “This isn’t my time. I don’t belong in it.”

  “Nor do the Skaraven,” he said, stunning her.

  Ruadri chose that moment to come in and ask Brennus to inspect some goods that had been brought to the great hall, and both men left her.

  Althea decided to put her curiosity on the back burner. She saw for herself that the clan was stockpiling the weapons and supplies they would need for the rescue mission. She got her carryall back from the shaman, and was able to wear her own clothes again, although her garments made the clansmen stare at her even more.

  For days Both Brennus and his War Master went over every detail she could recall of the giants’ encampment. They’d even put together a rough layout of the farm using beans, rocks, twigs and moss to represent the people, buildings, forests, and what paths she remembered. Even so, she didn’t know exactly where the camp was.

  One night after the evening meal Althea joined Cadeyrn to go over the crude model again, which they’d set up on a table in the War Master’s strategy room.

  “I think it’s as accurate as it’s going to get.” She moved the white stone representing the barn an inch to the left. “But I’m sure I’ll recognize the way when we’re there.” She gazed thoughtfully at the barn. “While I was there they kept two guards at the front, and one at the back.” She added three more beans. “They’ve probably doubled the guard since I escaped.”

  Cadeyrn moved to the opposite side and looked at the rocks, pointing to a narrow channel at the back of the barn. “If you’d run in this direction, you’d have better concealed your track.”

  She wondered if the War Master ever said anything that wasn’t a criticism or a veiled accusation. “I’ll remember that the next time they take me.”

  “There willnae be a next time,” he told her. “If the famhairean take you again, they shall kill you before the other females. You’d be made to suffer much before you died, to daunt the others from trying the same. ’Tis their way.”

  “So, definitely don’t get taken again,” Althea said and suppressed a shudder. “Any other advice?”

  “You may deny them their sport.” He pulled a short dagger from his belt and offered the hilt to her. “Do you ken where to use it?”

  For a moment she went blank, and then her throat tightened as she realized the only way she might escape death by famhair.

  “In the heart, I imagine.” Gingerly she took the blade, which felt cold and heavy in her grip. The reality of the fourteenth century hit her then, when suicide might be her best option. She met his gaze. “How can I be sure I won’t simply wound myself?”

  “If you’ve time, lodge the tip of the blade between the ribs, just below your heart, angle the blade, and fall forward onto the hilt. If no’”—he tapped the side of his neck—“thrust here.”

  As gruesome as his advice was, Althea knew the gruff man was trying to show her some kindness. “My thanks, War Master.” As she tucked the blade inside her jacket, the scars on her back tingled, and she eyed the entry. “The chieftain is back from his night rounds.”

  A moment later Brennus stepped into the chamber. “Fair evening, my lady.” He eyed Cadeyrn. “Manath needs your counsel on repairing the east flue.”

  “Aye, Chieftain. Fair evening, my lady.” The War Master gave her a sharp look before he went out into the great hall.

  Each night Brennus escorted Althea to her room on the underground level which adjoined his own chamber. She wasn’t sure if the chieftain had arranged that because he wanted to be near her, or if he wanted to make sure she didn’t take off again, but she didn’t question it. The clan had installed a small but comfortable bed for her, and a primitive wash stand and basin so she could tidy up. Before she went to sleep, Brennus usually spent an hour sitting with her by his fireplace to share a hot drink and talk.

  “Ferath brought this from Aviemore,” the chieftain told her as he poured the steaming, brew he’d warmed over the flames. “’Tis made with blaeberries, hawthorn and sorrel.”

  Althea took a sip of the fragrant, sweetly tart concoction. “You should make Ferath your Tea Master.” At his frown she said, “I forgot, you don’t have that yet. Someday your descendants will love it almost as much as whiskey. Assuming you ever get over your fear of women, of course.”

  He dropped another log in the fire. “We dinnae fear females.”

  “Tell that to the clan that’s been tiptoeing around me for the last week.” Althea sat back and sighed. “I think I’m growing on your War Master, though. He gave me some, ah, helpful tips today.”

  “How to kill yourself if you’re taken,” Brennus said and sat down across from her. “You neednae carry the blade.”

  “I’m part of the rescue mission, so yes, I do.” She saw his eyes shift away. “Oh, no. You’re not tossing me in the eagalsloc again. I’m going with you.”

  “’Tis no’ what I meant.” He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “You’ve but to use your power—on yourself.”

  She stared at him for a moment as she took his meaning. “All this confidence in me is so flattering.”

  “The raven doesnae choose the weak and cowardly,” Brennus told her. “That you bear the mark makes you as worthy as any of us.”

  She gave him a rueful look. “Then I’ll try not to let down your battle spirit.” She craned her neck trying to see her back. “I really wish you had some mirrors in this time, though, so I could get a look at this mark of mine.”

  “’Tis only your right,” he agreed. But when she turned back to him his face seemed less sure than he’d sounded. Slowly he pointed to the rug in front of the hearth. “Kneel down with your back to me and I will show you.”

  Althea put aside her brew and got into position, wondering how this would work. She stiffened a little when he removed her jacket.

  “Maybe you could just describe it to me,” she suggested, feeling her hands begin to tremble.

  “I shall,” Brennus said quietly as he knelt down behind her. He tugged at the bottom of her shirt to free it from her jeans. “Unfasten your bodice.”

  Glancing down at her buttoned-up shirt, Althea saw the two peaks that her hardened nipples made through her bra and the fabric. Being close to the chieftain always aroused her. His heat and scent had become like her own personal aphrodisiac. Even though he’d made it clear that they couldn’t get involved, her hands shook as she opened her shirt up to her breasts. She left one button fastened over her bra.

  “Okay,” she said, her voice pitched too high.

  His big hands slowly slid the back of her shirt up, folding it over her shoulders. It took him another minute to figure out how to unhook her bra. “Put your hands at your sides. Dinnae fret. ’Twill no’ hurt.”

  She hadn’t realize she’d been twisting her fingers together until she dropped her hands. Why couldn’t she get over this attraction to him? She’d never had a problem freezing out men before Brennus.

  Althea cleared her throat. “I’m ready. For the…whatever you’re doing.”

  “’Tis the same mark as I bear,” he said and shifted closer. “Here begins the raven’s beak.” His fingertip touched her left shoulder blade, and moved right over one of the sensitive spots. He traced a short, straight line, and then moved up in a curve. “The crown, and here the nape.”

  As he ran his finger over her scars and described the shapes, Althea closed her eyes to better imagine them. It didn’t prove difficult, for his touch left in its wake nerves that seemed to be glowing under her skin. She could see the raven, and the primitive winged arrow behind it, exactly like the ink on his shoulder.

  “You never told me why the raven marked me with your tattoo,” she murmured, wrapping her arms around her waist as her belly filled with butterflies. “Is it because I got in its face when it was attacking you?”

  “I cannae tell you.” His hand trailed down to the small of h
er back before he took it away. “Marking a female with the skinwork of a male…if the Skaraven had been a Pritani tribe…but we arenae.”

  Althea turned to face him. “But you have Pritani blood, and your clan is your tribe.”

  He kept his gaze on her face. “You arenae Pritani, Althea.”

  “We don’t know that for sure,” she countered breathlessly. “I think my father’s mother was Scottish. Her people could have been, way back when. I mean, now. So what would it mean if we were both Pritani, Brennus?”

  “That my battle spirit chose you for me.” His hands gripped the rug on either side of him. “As my mate. As my wife.”

  “So I’d be yours,” she said, almost with a laugh, but it wasn’t funny. “Just like that.”

  His voice went deep. “With my mark on your skin, no other Pritani male would touch you.”

  She reached for her shirt, but instead of closing it she undid the last button. Some wild part of her wanted him to look at her body, and she couldn’t resist it. “So I’d have no choice?”

  “You wouldnae want another.” He leaned closer, his gaze locked on her mouth. “But I could never take you as wife. ’Twas always forbidden for me and my clan. The tribes bred us as warriors too hardened and dangerous to be trusted with females. Only males of the tribe came to our camp. Wherever we fought, the Pritani would hide their females from us.”

  Althea was shaken. It seemed horrific, and yet explained so much about the chieftain and his clan. “None of you have ever had lovers?”

  “Of a kind,” he said, sounding bitter now. “We had pleasure lasses. Once we grew to manhood the tribe’s shaman brought barren females to attend to our cocks every full moon. He first chained us to our beds so that we couldnae harm them. He forbade us to speak or move during the ritual facking. To be sure, he had men stand watch as the lasses mounted us, and after we spilled to take them away. ’Twas part of our training, to control our needs.”